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Monday:

I tear out of my desk, jovially moving to the front of the room.
"You know, there's this play, it's about ten years old I think, that's been made into a movie, and it depicts that scene just as it was explained by Aristophanes."
"There's a play that's been made out of that story?"
"No, it's an original play, but at one point in the movie there's an animated sequence where you get to see those four-armed, four-legged creatures and Zeus cut them in half with a lightning bolt."
"Oh, what's the name of this movie?"
I see him pull out a small notebook and flip it to the present. It's filled with lines, going horizontally and vertically, but this is where the mathematics end: it is filled instead with dark, tight figures, words modestly working themselves into the economy of the page, words modestly occupying the economy of his life.
"Its called Hedwig and the Angry Inch."
"Head, what?"
"Hedwig, Aych-Ee-Dee, Dubl-Yu-Ai-Gee-"
"Oh, Hedwig, and?"
"The Angry Inch"
His puzzled expression informs me that I'm again letting my zeal overtake my focus on communication.
"Thee Ain-gree Inch"
"Oh, hmm... that's an odd title."
"It makes perfect sense as you watch the movie. It's actually about a transexual from East Berlin before the fall of the Berlin Wall."
At the word "transexual" he begins to react: "Well, that's the way to do it."
So I go back back and collect my teachings, hop along my way outside. I'm already signing to anticipate the songs I'l play on my walk home. That's when I realize that I had forgotten to stand the recording, so I've been doing a secret acapella performance of "Animal" to finish my "notes" of the day. The final words on the notes-track: "Oh, shit."

But before that, and before my frantic, fruitless search for my keys, I was sitting in my English Olde-Thyme Lit class thinking, as I am wont to do as my mind refuses to wade through the bog of vocabulary, of hardcore fucking. And not simple banging, I'm talking over-the-top geometric dazzling fucks. I'm trying to imagine what I could do if she (and of course I say she, unindividualized, because of course I do not have the gall or presumption to include a specific human being in these divine fantasies. How violated would she feel if she knew that the creep in the back corrner was truncating her beautiful personality, her wond'rous being into the crass schematization of weight, flexibility and pleasure!) would lie on her side, facing... my left. I would have my foot lightly over the bottom of her right leg, just enough to apply resistance, and I pull up her left leg with my left hand, then wrap it around my back so that the crook of my right elbow would hold her left foot behind my back. I hope that I could reach her hip with my right hand, so I could support her weight with that arm alone, as I hold her up off the bed with spread legs, my left hand free to massage her exposed clit as I fuck deeply, unencumbered by flesh or linen walls that would prevent the complete consumption of my cock inside her. For once I'm actually glad that class isn't about to be over, because I'm wearing lightweight dress pants and standing up now would be sure to get me arrested for sex crimes. My mind wanders back to unspectacular reality, where I find that teach is going over the same shit she talked about last time. So she asks one of her time-gobbling questions to the mute class, and I raise my hand. She nods, I speak: "Bede originally wrote the hymn paraphrased in Latin, but as later scholars read over the text they transcribed the actual Old English version of Caedmon's hymn in the margins." I idly wonder if anyone thinks I'm King Shit because of the overcomplicated answer, but I assure myself that even if they do they shouldn't, because I'm just regurgitating what she said last class. Her expression, an almost-wide-eyed stare, quickly dissipates into minor nodding with a non-congradulatory "that's right," and she proceeds to repeat what she's already said, what I've just said. I'm reminded of a bus tour I took in Washington D.C. years ago: the driver was pleasant enough, with a tinge of enthusiasm that had to be faked but was still appreciated. As we drive up to a landmark he is talking about it, and as we drive by it he begins to say the same sentences he just has, verbatim. The family I was with, and I'm sure the entire bus, exchanged looks of disbelief and humor, but no one dared tell him of his error. He had mistakenly let us into his mind, the monotony of meaningless mantras, and none of us wanted to be kicked out. So we let him go, wasting some of our precious time on this succinct and informative, pre-planned and mass-produced tour of American governance. But here, in ENG3110, I have suspicions that she is fully aware of her repitition (and if she hadn't been, making her be as such was the purpose of my "lengthy" reply) and its utility in stretching out lectures to fit whatever schedule she desired. So I go back to my inner torment, the yearning for spectular slapping of skin, the glandular dripping I've been sorely missing.

Before this, and before a previous fruitless attempt at locating my keys, I am sitting in a class on physics reading Marcus Aurelius. I compare the sounds that come out of the teach's mouth with what he writes on the board (Zee and Gee, for example, indistinguishable), and I realize communication on all but the most bare levels is pointless. Thankfully, his powerpoints are available online, so I need not copy them down. It's as if the class is a mandated study time for me, where I can work comfortably with the pleasant ambience of broken English. I try to get what this man, dead for 1828 years, was all about. I haven't gotten far, but from what I've gathered he's in firm opposition to everything Caligula personified, thus my prejudice against him is garuanteed. But honestly, he seems all about self-denial: if anything titilates you, run from it. He begs me to become cold, dispassionate, calculating. But "why?" I ask him. "Calculation is nothing without a goal. Without pleasure in sight, what's the point of planning? Go ahead, Aurelius, build your ghastly castle-prison in reverence of the gods of 'holier-than-thou' and 'unmitigated diligence.' I'm off to punish myself with dissatisfaction, with ceaseless need of the communion of my flesh with what it burns for (lavish treats of sweets and skin), and to devote myself to their temporary combustion and the moments of ecstasy." I've come to realize that the transience of pleasure is its greatest strength (and like every white dead guy ever would disagree with this). If I could have the Ultimagasm, one bright salute that would leave in its wake no more want, I would simply be waiting to die in an eternal refractory period. I do not want to be a stagnant statue, I want waves of want washing over me, only whispering at first, building, building to a crescendo of screams to drink cream and make cream, left to dream "in the shade of love's bough" (-Billy Quizboy, Escape to the House of Mummies Pt. II) and wake wanting another whirlpool to swirl me in, slurp me up for the next rotation of the wheel of whetting. Oh, shit, class is over.

Here's a snippet of a conversation with my new roommate:

All right, it's now recording, yeah, this thing's pretty tight, it's got a little hole in it-that's what she said. THAT WORKED OUT GREAT! I'm glad that's on tape now, that's a good one. Yeah, it's 30 bucks and you get a voice recorder, a flash drive and a mp3 player. How many gigs is it though? One. Oh, it's a baby. It's a little guy. It's just a widdle guy. You could go into this, uh, garbage station and swing around. Ok, they do have gas stations, but what if they did have garbage stations? Uh, my car's looking a little too tidy right now, I want to impress people. Uh, can I get some garbage? I want it to look like-I want it to be HOT garbage as well, is this climate controlled garbage? I'll have some of the, um... week-old french fries and the... six pounds of bacon fat! They just dump bacon fat into your upholstery. What would be the point of doing this? You could rent a car and so that no one would steal it yeah, actually that is a useful thing: just people not stealing it; but I was thinking if you rented a car and you wanted to keep the car and make them think that it couldn't have possibly been theirs. Be like, "this has easily got seventeen years of damage on the inside fucked-up interior how am I going to melt an entire pound of licorice in a week? This is not possible." It's a very specific sort of business but I think we should do it. Yeah, the garbage station. I don't know, my brain was just going to "garbage" because I saw that place didn't look very... sane. And by sane I don't mean "sound of mind" I mean "healthy."

I'm been watching this movie called "The Architecture of Doom" and transcribing it all. I want this period of my artistic career to be known as
"The Architecture of Boom" period.

If this cute condensed poem just doesn't provide enough sampling of my penmanship, I've got a couple more sheets filled with text, but I didn't do too much to create anything (though I'd say I did "craft" something, in that my writing was not nonchalant). However, I took a unreasonably long time composing this out of the pages I had made with the transcription. And unlike the first poem, this stuff interacts with the other pieces quite a bit more. You can tell the later stuff that was added by the decreasing size of the "samples."

I hope that this is legible to Americanized American eyes. Just try to follow the lines, they do try to line up, and when things start changing directions, go with it.



I spent all this time working so that I could either make you gush over me (to me) or declare how much I suck (to me), or anything between there on the gush/suck spectrum. So, yeah.

"Let's see how the Judges react...
Judges?
Judges, why aren't you reacting?"

a draft:



:more to follow

I had intended to post the manuscript with the transcription with all the encryption presently presented. Alas, the split/screen funniness of the dual-blasting PC monitor and Big-F'ing-TV makes NVIDIA homicidal. A crafty firefox survives, but a restart needed to rectify the sitcheeashun. Here we are, with a double-barrel-blast entry, like, yeah.

I WANT TO MAKE YOU HORNY, BUT I CANT GET IT UP
why cant you get it up why cant you get it up why cant you get it up

Because when you have both barrels loaded, you know, it's hard not to discharge them both at the same time. Sometimes, you just want one, but you can't help it.

VOICE008 0:00:03 I was just stumbling around my apartment looking for my telephone and it was not because I had to answer my telephone, it was because I needed to utilize my telephone. 0:00:19 And When I realized this I said it out loud, to myself. 0:00:24 Then I realized that there is another device I could be utilizing, and that is my voice recorder, which I am presenting using. 0:00:40 klk 0:00:42 klk 0:00:44 klk VOICE009 0:00:02 Recently acquired, four brand new batteries, and I'm very happy about this. 0:00:15 bnG 0:00:15 You see, the reason why I wanted to utilize this in the first place was to go and talk to Jonathon via text message. 0:00:26 klk 0:00:30 What I wanted to tell Jonathon was that I realized that earlier I had said that R. Kelly was not personally deep even though I felt that he was deeply skilled in a musical sense, and 0:00:51 klk I realize that he may be more deep if he is not intentionally deep, that if 0:01:06 klk he were to know that he was deep that would cheapen it, and by him just being he is deep, but in 0:01:25 KLK 0:01:28 the pursuit of his career he must make a mockery of himself because he is not capable of being 0:01:40 klk he cannot be linked to any kind of serious endeavor. 0:01:49 That would completely fly in the face of everything that he embodies. 0:01:58 klk 0:02:00 But the brutish reality that he is and that he, of course, creates around him 0:02:12 klk is so insightful to the people that behold him, that I think he lives as art, as a performer, truuly.0:02:32 klk 0:02:35 Bng Something in me believes that that would be too long for a text message. 0:02:42 But I really wanted to communicate the idea. 0:02:46 So, hence, why I was looking so desperately for my telephone. 0:02:51 Though I've completely given up on this and that's good because it was really a fucked up mission to begin with. 0:03:00 But then again 0:03:02 klng maybe the fucked up mission is what got me here. 0:03:06 Of course it is, 0:03:09 clng it made me use the word "utilize," made me utilize the word "utilize," and by utilizing "utilize" I was able to utilize new parts of 0:03:24 clng myself. 0:03:27 Righty-o. 0:03:30 klk

There I was, today, in class. Yes, it already has begun.

And things look different around here, where I am.

Too many possible,
so
I'll just slide on,
but how many directions
at a time?

Hold on, hold on, give it time... elucidation is an art of the future.

So, I had grandiose plans that I was going to write a short story and post it today. Since you're reading this, you can tell I haven't. I'll admit, I'm a little disappointed, but I was just pulling things out of my ass anyway, it wasn't anything to be proud of. Well, one thing that made me happy was that I got my chair all comfy, and laid back, closed my eyes, and started typing, and I filled up about a page in like, I don't know, maybe five or ten minutes. I wasn't timing myself, but I didn't have any really long pauses. I did go for a walk just before I sat down to write, and I was thinking about what I would write that whole time, so it got me started, but still, I feel like I've figured out at least how to get comfortable enough so I can start writing. It was just that the subject was dull. I didn't have anything to say, I was just writing so I would have something written, and that's no good for me, and I'm sure it would be no good for you either.

So, walking. I've been doing a lot of that recently, especially since classes have let out. I intend to keep on walking after those spring/summer classes start (which, after begrudgingly accepting that I would have to check to see when they start, found that it's in THREE FUCKING DAYS. Ridiculous. Spring break was longer than the gap between semesters. That's soul-crushing. Give the chillens some time to rejoice in their freedom, for real.). I've gone to the fitness center for the third time, where I was able to run (at 4.5 mph, which I think is like a fast jog. I think jog should have a specific speed, like jog = 3.68 mph or something. It's all too subjective. This kid needs facts: hard facts.) for a whopping 21 minutes. I wanted to do thirty, but my stomach was beginning to hurt, and I didn't want to overexert myself. But that isn't the real caloric subtraction vessel, that's more to make it so that when I do exert myself I don't turn into a sweat fountain (which I am every time I run. Seriously, the dripping onto the machine is constant. Thank god I believe in hygiene). It's the walking. I need a pedometer or something, so I can blow myself with pride over how far I've walked. I could use mapquest or something so I could retroactively know, but that's too much work. I'll let my ignorance give me even more aggrandizement, by telling myself I walked ten miles today or something. Eh. That isn't what I really care about, what I care about is being able to see my abdominal muscles. I can see the upper two right now, and if I push the tub down I can see the next two, though something tells me that pushing about your fat to show someone your muscles doesn't really incite lust. Well, there's someone out there that's attracted to everything, right?

So my eating has taken on new patterns. Instead of starvation punctuated by candy binges I'm doing three small-type meals a day. I'm not sure exactly how many calories I'm taking in, but I think it must be reasonable.

So why do I think anyone is interested in this? I don't, not really. Truth be told, I'm bored. And boredom can lead to writing, even if it is something as inane as me belaboring the points of my diet and exercise routine. But then again, by committing this to writing, the sands of time will have a much harder time eroding these things from my memory. There's been so many days in my life that I can't tell you thing one about any more, and that's tragic.

So what if this is boring? It's preciously boring. One day I'll have the ability to read this and think "Wow, 23-year-old Andrew sure was shallow and pathetic. I'm such a fucking rock star now. Better go back into my trailer and jerk off while staring at myself again." And in the end, isn't that what everyone wants?

So it was raining today, decently, for the better part of the day. One would hope that it was enough to wash away the grime that's covering the city everywhere I turn, but that hope is probably a bit too much. I think a tornado would have to roll through Detroit to make that happen (which I think is meteorologically impossible because of the river, but I don't know about these things). My (successful) walks occurred before and after the storm, though at one point I thought it was letting up and I had a mind to walk to John King books. My mind was proved quite soggy as the gale returned full force and I was drenched. I've heard the idea that if you let yourself get soaked by the rain, then you can enjoy it. Let me tell you, the people that say that don't wear glasses. And they're probably just insane, because even after I took off my foggily useless glasses (which kept threatening to slip off my nose) I was still pretty miserable: cold, heavy, uncomfortable. It was a good thing that I wasn't far from home when it started coming down that hard. And when I got home, the first thing I did was check the mail: Netflix!

So I watched Buffalo '66 today. Man, what a great movie. It's been forever since I've seen it (I don't think I watched it while I was in Tennessee. In retrospect, it's so stupid that I didn't re-watch the great movies that were at my disposal then. Once you've consumed a work of art, you shit it out and flush it, right? No need to watch/read/look at anything that you've already done once, unless you're forced to to show someone else. Girrrrr-Oan.) One thing that I didn't pick up (or don't remember picking up) before was that I'm pretty sure Billy wanted to make his parents think he was alive after he planned to kill himself. How eerie is that! You kill yourself, but instead of like most people who really get off thinking about how it would impact everyone in their life, you try to trick them into thinking you're still alive. It's such an isolated mentality. And I actually said "Oh my God" out loud when I saw that Vincent Gallo did all the music (well, the score anyway) too. That I probably already knew, but had forgotten. Talk about auteur.

So I'm going to bed soon. Jon moves in tomorrow. What a race it's going to be! (Husqvarnas, Yamahas, DMCs, Kawasakis, Perzangs, Swedish Fireballs, a couple of Triumphs, here and there a CZ, all very fast, very [there may be misspellings here, but I wanted to give a hint at what I was quoting with what I meant to be the final sentence/quote of the blog, and I didn't want to look anything up for veracity's sake. Fuck Veracity!])

I don't have anything overtly artistic in mind as I write this, I just feel like I'm catching the first few rays of a new dawn, and it's EE-EFFIN awesome.

Now, I know that bitches know that GTA IV and MSI's "If" came out yesterday. By some act of divine justice I was able to play GTA the day it came out. Sheesh. I had had some high hopes for it, but damn, it was something else. MC Chris said "this game is detail overload.
" and is that ever accurate. I didn't get far, obv, but I was enthralled during the credits, and the batshit cinematic way they was done. There's been plenty of games that I've thought helped the case for video games being viewed as a legitimate art form, but they've mostly been minor releases (you could argue that previous GTA games were artistic, but I don't think anybody would watch the cutscenes alone without playing the game, and honestly, I think I would for this one). I don't know of any game that's been so visible to the public eye that could maybe get TEAM ACADEME to pay the medium its due.

I'm pretty gushy about MSI too, but I haven't listened to it enough to talk in detail. I've got something like 50 days until their concert, and sometime between now and then I'll post a scholarly, masturbatory analysis of it. Suffice to say I'm looking forward to working out (read: running) in a little bit, both for the statue I wanna to carve out of this lump of clay that is ma body (here's to hoping I wear a fishnet top to the concert) and for the opportunity to familiarize myself with some supreme goodness.

Recently I got to see the Season 3 preview of the Venture Bros. and the Q&A that Hammer, Publick, Sinterniklaas (holy crap, I spelled that right! even before I checked!) and Urbaniak held. It's got me very excited for what's to come in like a month. A month!

Yeah, and Shadowmoor's coming out. I can say, and I know this sounds like hyperbole but it isn't, that it's my favorite Magic set ever. Which doesn't matter too much, since it's not like I'm going to buy/play with any of the cards, but still, if WotC is getting this good at designing the game, whenever I get the money to waste on it I'm going to be happy. Maybe I should pull a Jon and post a bulletin asking people to buy some packs and send them to me. I don't want to make any hard and fast promises, but if ya sent me a box, I might just fellate ya (saying this brought to my attention that I don't think cunnilingus has a verb form, which I totally would use if it existed. Tragic. We need to get on this, stat).

Speaking of the boy wonder, he's going to join me to form an unholy alliance on 633 Prentis. That's right, for the first time in, um... 5, 6 years we'll be living under the same roof. And this time there won't be any parents. We're going to stay up late, eat cookies and beat Super Metroid every damn night. But sur-ee-us-lee, it should be bitchin, though I don't know exactly what to expect. Suspicions point towards a lot of imposition on both of our parts of our individual geekeries. There will be much talk of creative motherfuckers and masterpieces of shit. And that's good!

Yeah, and he's about to turn 21 (it's weird, for some reason I feel like I've been 23 forever, but it hasn't even been two months yet), whereupon we'll be in LAS VEGAS! Huzzah! And our trip was just extended: 6 days! Excalamation points! Are useful at conveying enthusiasm! Anyway, I know I'm going to put Jon through a rigorous diet of Fear & Loathing and the beginning of Highway, so he'll know what the hell I'm up to as I shout "Bisexuals are trying to kill me!" as I blindly stagger through the bowels of the city. Good god and gravy.

Oh, and classes ended for me formally two days ago, but I still did a little work yesterday. After a friggin marathon of writing that went from like, ten hundred hours on the 27th to six hundred hours on the 28th I feel like a literary powerhouse. Which is probably why this is such a long entry: it's like I've been doing that boring, arduous training where I have to let my fingers go numb punching a frozen carcass held by a degenerate throwing insults at me, and now I get to go into the ring and beat the shit out of some smug fuck then get laid by his girlfriend as the doctors try to figure out how to get him out of the coma. And, like, the thing I'm most impressed with myself is that I know I'm going to do some reading tonight, even though I don't have to. GoGo Motivation!