Celebrated Summer--A Dirge

I'm going to wax a little nostalgic as is my wont. I can remember my American history teacher in high school saying that she never saw a group of people so young reminisce so much as my friends and I did.

Yesterday, the major players of summers past assembled around a familiar kitchen table for a short reunion, reminding me that our small corner of Indiana has people as varied and interesting as almost anywhere in the world. Even though I've had a really great summer, bouncing around Cambridge and Spain in indigence with some of my best friends in the world, I couldn't help but be a little saddened upon my return to Indiana. The time spent in Bloomington with old friends, and the week to come in the Region cause my mind to wander into the pockets of past summers at the waterpark, the cafe, and the houses of friends. It also sparked the creation of alternate realities which I find I'm able to create as easily as if I had lived them. The breakneck spiral of St. Patrick's Day at the Cantab echoes in my brain as if I had witnessed the Lush handing out doritos and pointing to the drummer, Schnocone collecting the pieces of a shattered lamp, and the Italian with Shick Chick discussing her parents watching Wheel of Fortune and drinking kickaboo juice. The other alternate reality I like to kick around is my American 21st Birthday Bash which never happened but has still been colored by cliches and flourishes.

Anyways, enough of that noodling, I know you probably want to know about my week in Bloomington at a campus that isn't included in Playboy's list of top party schools because they don't think it's fair to include a professional in a list of amateurs.

So first, I want to relate the various quotes that came out of this week.

"I'll have a walnut egg."--Schnocone, trying to order pecan walnuts at Waffle House.
--(Waitress--We don't have that. Schno--Ok, I'll have a walnut pancake...walnut waffle. Waitress--We have pecan pancakes. Schno--That's what I said. Walnut egg. (actually he said "That sounds fine" but I find this response funnier.

Schnocone: Mmmm, this popsicle was created by Jesus.
Hoosier Lush: The only thing Jesus ever created was pointless suffering.

Hoosier Lush: Baby's in a baaaad mooooood. (To Schnocone, repeatedly, when he was having none of it.)

Hoosier Lush: The only thing Bighead knows about is God.

So here are other things that happened during this past week.

All my friends went out to Bullwinkle's in Bloomington. The best part about Bullwinkle's is that it's Bloomington's gay club, but it's housed in what used to be the old Moose Lodge of the area. How hilarious is that? Well, we went to Bull's in order to see the Wednesday night drag show over the opportunity to sing karaoke at the Office Lounge. At first it seemed like a mistake since the drag queens had quit in a huff that very day over some pay dispute or something. We went in anyway, and after some much needed lubrication (maybe I should be more careful in my word choice), the Lush and I decided to hit the dance floor where we went absolutely bonkos. I'm not much of a dancer, but we were so infected by the mixes that we went absolutely crazy, taking up probably almost a third of the dance floor with our routine that ranged from swing-ish arm moves to a recreation of a bull fight to faux Pulp Fiction hand moves and writhing on the ground, a la Madonna doing Like a Virgin at the first VMAs. It was possibly the most fun I've ever had dancing anywhere. We were out of control.

Friday night we went on a bar crawl for one of our friends there. It all began over Sink the Biz at Nick's, which was a big, loud, blast. Afterward, we went to Kilroy's which proved that Bloomington may not be the coolest place based on the music selection of American Pie and Ob La Di and Build Me Up Buttercup. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it, but Kilroy's is pretty bad. From there we went to the Bluebird which was my uncle's favorite place back in the day. Their night's attraction was Headbanger's Ball where they had a hair metal cover band. How I was able to endure it is beyond me, but the general ridiculousness of it actually cracked me and everyone else up. Some audience members were a little too into it, though.

That may be about it in terms of general craziness. If I remember anything else, I'll post, but I think I've bored you enough.

Oh, here's something that is currently pissing me off. On the list of VMA performers, Shakira's duet partner Alejandro Sanz is missing, which means that I think they're replacing him with Ricky Martin. This is unfounded, but the fact that he's even at the event makes me think, this to be true, which would really, really suck, as he lacks any of the hardcore sexuality needed to make the song work, making La Tortura as autoerotic for Shakira as a Walt Whitman poem. The only thing worse would be if Shakira performs an English song.

Over and Out.

Coming Home, Via Chicago

It's my last day in Cambridge, and at 6:55pm I will be in the air bound for Chicago. OK, I shouldn't get ahead of myself here. I have the uncanny ability to delay any flight I'm on, ESPECIALLY flights to Chicago. So even though my landing time is 8:42pm, I probably won't actually land until well after 10pm. It's a science.

Last night I helped Bighead move and we were awesome. We did it in about 2.5 hours, not counting the big furniture we moved the day before. As a reward, we went out for a delicious beer afterward. I'm going to miss my beloved UFO. Is there anything quite like a wheat beer in summer with a twist of lemon? I don't think so. Tonight after I get in I plan to immediately stop at Al's #1 Italian Beef for an Italian beef covered in hot peppers, and the bread dipped in the juices. Afterward, I'll go directly across the street to enjoy some Mario's Italian Lemonade where a gracious Mexican (no, not many Italians are actually left in the historic Italian neighborhood) will serve me a cantaloupe lemonade. I cannot explain to you the magic of this delicious, shaved ice concoction made only of the purest ingredients and freshest of fruits. Most amazing is the way that the cantaloupe and lemon flavors blend in order to help rid the flavor of the cantaloupe from its more garbage-like tones. (In case you don't know, cantaloupe tastes vaguely of garbage...especially if it's a little ripe.)

Then we will drive home on the Skyway past the steel mills where my nostrils and lungs will jump for joy with the return of the aroma of hard work and pollution. Honestly, I haven't drunk in these odors in quite a while. Then we will wind our way into the sleepy suburb of Hobart where I will retire to the luxuries of satellite tv and my new computer with which insurance has replaced the stolen one.

Last night I finished "American Pastoral" and although I loved it, I couldn't help feel extremely let down by the ending. About fifty pages from the end I realized that Roth wasn't really that interested in wrapping things up, so we wouldn't hear about future interactions between the protagonist and his daughter, or her death, or his, which are all spoken of in the first section, so I haven't ruined any spoilers. In the last three pages, it looked as though we were on our way for a crash landing, but it turned out to be a clever, mind-ruse, which was quite upsetting. I must say that he didn't take the easy way out, but I'm kind of upset that so much of the future of these characters' lives was left hanging at the end. We're talking no resolution whatsoever. I'm still trying to construct their past futures in my head, getting nowhere, which I guess is a good thing, but it's also very upsetting.

And all this means one thing...I need to finish Moby Dick. The second half is next in the book queue, so there's no way around it. I've already procrastinated by plowing through four books in my time here, and the moment of reckoning is at hand. Honestly, people, have you ever known me to read this much? It's bizarre, but I think my moment of castellano captivity in Spain awakened my love of the English language and literature. That's not to say that I don't miss Spanish...a LOT, but it's so much more satisfying to read a book in your native tongue.

The ipod is charged, the bags are packed, the lunch is eaten, and now I'm settling into a few hours of delicious tv time before returning to the Crossroads of America, which may seem like an odd slogan for a state as sleepy as Indiana, but if you've ever been in Indiana even for a little bit, you know how easy it is to leave it. There are just about a million interstates all intersecting, making it perfect for leaving, which I will be doing in about three weeks. But in the mean time, I will be basking in the understated, pastoral beauty of dunes and cornfields, as well as the mighty brawn of industrial steel. Oh, not to mention trips to Chicago, where I'll hopefully be seeing my first place Sox getting over their losing streak and becoming a major playoff contender. And the Gary Southshore Railcats, because honestly, is there anything to compare with independent minor league baseball? Methinks not.

Turkey Time, Part II

The feast is over. We had turkey, stuffing (does anyone else call it dressing?), broccoli, mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce with $1 wine and strawberry rhubarb pie which Schnocone brought from the grocery store. The turkey was amazing, and we have so much left. We may not finish all of it before I leave.

But the meal was not without hangups.
1. Finding the organs in the turkey is like hide and seek. Why don't they put all of them in the cavity. Bighead watched me as I searched up and down, banging the thing, looking for the liver, etc. I finally decided that maybe this wasn't included in all turkeys, and after pulling out the neck and gizzard, stuffed the turkey and was done. Only after cooking it, did we find the innards, underneath the neck flap. Luckily, this in no way affected the delicious taste of a truly juicy and delicious bird.
2. Gravy. I don't understand gravy. It is a sphinx. I can make it. It tastes pretty good, but it is never as smooth as it should be. I'm quick to blame the lack of a proper pan, but I'm pretty sure the problem is me. After a couple more times, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. The color and flavor were pretty great, but there were some burnt floaties. Practice makes perfect.

This was a real team effort, proving that Schnocone, Bighead, and I can feed ourselves without having to rely on the aid of Baby Huey or our parents. For a first attempt, we kicked ass. Obviously we still have a ways to go, but this was quite a success.

Turkey Time!

So after a ridiculous party at the girls' place on Friday, and the obligatory Saturday recovery and guilt-fest over Wendy's value menu, today is Sunday, and it's a whole new week offering the promise of Chicago, the Region, and IU. There will be some major traveling, major being a relative word. Really, it's nothing compared to some of my whirlwind trips on the Iberian subcontinent and Asia Minor. I only have one more week left of survival, work, and Cambridge, and so Bighead and I decided that to celebrate the end of summer we are making a turkey. (Also, Bighead made pretty good pasta sauce from scratch on Friday, but that's neither here nor there. Neither is his birthday which was a blast, except for the fact that I got tired and cranky. Sorry.)

But on to the turkey! It's in the oven now, it's all buttered up, stuffed with stuffing, and we're just waiting to start the mashed potatoes and broccoli and cranberry sauce that will accompany it. This is a major endeavor. It's the first time we've used the oven, not counting the delicious cookies we make with prefab cookie dough. We're pretty sure it's going to be awesome. We got the bag and everything. The only threats to this turkey are a possibly unreliable oven which may or may not have even heating, and the dreaded gravy. However, after making semi-decent pork gravy, I feel like making turkey gravy will be...well...gravy. Oh, and Bighead bought these red onions that made me weep. It was painful, and I made the mistake of wearing my glasses, so I couldn't wipe my tears on my shoulder, and I couldn't chop with my glasses off because I'm blind.

In other news, I really love Shakira. If there's a better pop artist out there right now, I'd like to know about it. I'm pretty sure once I get to IU on Saturday the Lush and I are going to break out some screaming at the top of our lungs La Tortura over Keystone and hot porch action. I cannot wait for the porch. I think it has a swing, too. This is the problem with not going to school in a city that lives for the college and doesn't have cheap housing for rent. DeWolfe doesn't even have little patios.

In other cooking news, there's some station here that plays classic Julia Child. We're talking vintage "The French Chef." It's amazing. She's so entertaining. Nobody on Food Network can even touch her apron strings. I don't know if it's the voice, the amazonian girth, the brute force of her hands struggling with an unforgiving chicken or what, but it's like watching poetry.

Stay tuned to find out how the bird turns out. Should be interesting. Also, we have no idea why the Butterball turkey hotline exists. It all seemed so easy to do. Perhaps I'm speaking to soon.

Summer School

I don't know if it's being at Harvard or the fact that last semester wasn't really like school the fact that this is my last year of school or what, but this has been a pretty academic summer as summers go. What follows is an insight into what's been going on inside my brain for the last few months while it may seem like I've basically been working, arguing, and, yes, wilding.

So here are some fun facts about me and Lincoln. I like to compare myself to the greatest president ever, so bear with me. It will be like Lincoln/Kennedy comparisons, only less freaky.

1-I was born on April 14, the day Lincoln was assassinated (also the day the Titanic struck an iceberg (booooring) and the day the Segunda Republica Espanola was created). Isn't that a great birthday?
2-We're both 6'4", which means should I ever go to his house in Springfield, I can have the truly awesome experience of gazing into the shaving mirror that he gazed into each and every day.
3-We both spent our formative years in Indiana...although I spent my whole life there, and he just spent his childhood/adolescence.
4-We both think slavery is wrong.
5-Neither of us would be Republicans today.

Ohok, so I ran out of steam on the last two, but whatever.

In other news, I've been doing something I've never really taken seriously before--summer reading. I'm reading more this summer than I have in, well, ever. I'm a reading machine. I love it. So far this summer I've read The Long Goodbye, The Sun Also Rises, The Partly Cloudy Patriot, Assassination Vacation, great parts in Leaves of Grass, Winesburg Ohio, and am currently in the middle of American Pastoral and Moby Dick.

I'm not sure the two Sarah Vowell books count, though, since I read both of them in about half a week, although not consecutively. Winesburg, Ohio was really great. I completely disagree with what Huey read and related to me, namely that it's basically bogus how it's based on a premise that small-town life is crazy. The best part of Winesburg is that most of the stories aren't crazy. They're refreshingly normal. My family probably has people with much crazier stories than those. I just love that it doesn't go over the top, but rather simmers in a way that "small-town" or "suburban" literature doesn't anymore. Exhibit A--American Beauty, a good, if deeply flawed movie. I must admit, though, that most of the book I was underwhelmed, but the last couple of chapters were really good, and by the time I finished I absolutely loved it. "An american town worked terribly at the task of amusing itself." I love that line. Overall, I like a little bit more stylized prose, but the conversational, let-me-tell-you-a-story approach is kind of nice. It's not terribly artistic, but it matches the subject matter well.

Yesterday before I hunkered into reading American Pastoral I was talking about how it wasn't really grabbing me. I was only 59 pages in at this point, but still I was kind of bored by the whole Jewish assimilation stuff, and the prospect of tackling the Vietnam war seemed a little boring since, well, like most people of my generation, I'm sick of hearing about Vietnam. But wow. Roth knows how to pack a punch. I wish I had some choice quotes to lay out before you, but I don't. It's really great. Could be thesis worthy. My brother actually recommended it because he thought it matched my preocccupations with America well, and boy howdy does it. I can't wait to see where it takes off. I'm still just about a third of the way into it.

Today is Bighead's birthday, so we're going to go karaokeing, and he's just going to have to wait until I have some money for his present because I'm still kind of poor.

I'm home a week from today which is shocking. When I arrive, I will have been away over 7 months. That's not a terribly long time, but it seems like it, especially as action-packed as my life has been this past half year.

On Monday I had to turn in thesis topics in a crunch because I was notified that day they were picking advisors and if I didn't get my stuff in, then I'd probably get a random advisor who in all likelihood would not match my interests. So here's what my brain came up with when I got that sucker-punch of adrenaline, condensing all my deep academic soulsearching of the last three years into one email. These, ladies and gentlemen, are my interests, in email form:

-------------------------------
Sorry about the delay. I also apologize that I'm currently preoccupied with
three or four ideas running circles in my head. I'm still undecided about a
thesis topic and am reading as fast as I can this summer. I think most
importantly, my ideal tutor would be interested in the 1950s or 1980s (with the
60s and 70s also possible). In addition to this, I've become interested in the
time after the Lincoln assassination:

In regard to the Lincoln assassination, what interests me most is the idea of
the American martyr, and the importance the nation placed on his death on Good
Friday, as well as his near deification by Whitman. The imagined relationship
between Whitman and Lincoln, the difference between the idealist poet and the
pragmatic politician I think holds the strongest possibilities. Before the
Civil War, Whitman has in some ways been credited with creating a new American
religion, linking body and sould in spirituality, and his near deification of
Lincoln in subsequent versions of Leaves of Grass fascinates me.

In the 1950s, I would be most interested in studying Chandler's The Long Goodbye
as a kind of precursor to pop fiction...a paperback masterpiece. Also, it's
connection with post-war consumer culture, anxiety about power, and the idea of
crime as a symptom of freedom, and not a disease in itself also interest me.

In the 1980s, I'm interested in how the apocalypse plays out in American arts,
from rock music to movies, etc. I haven't decided on a text, but have noticed
how both the religious right and idealist liberals both viewed America as
spinning out of control. The right saw us as moving toward certain apocalypse
awash in a sea of vice, while the left may have believed in the myth of America
too much, and as the Civil Rights movement came to a near screeching halt in the
Reagan administration, the left saw America as not living up to its potential,
and regressing into a modern imperialist juggernaut.

(Also of interest to me is a reading of The Great Gatsby as a novel of Midwest
displacement on the east coast, and the alienation that comes with it. The
idea of mobility in terms of physical mobility in an automobile, covering the
terrain of America, and the social mobility as seen by Gatsby's rise in wealth
would both be cautionary as in the end, all the characters are Midwest,
incapable of adjusting to life in east coast standards, and Gatsby unable to
pull off his upper class aspirations, falling flat, notably in the face of his
fellow Midwesterners.)

I will hopefully be sending you a list of tutors that I think may be best able
to help me in the next hour.

Ryan
----------------------
Obviously there are some errors in this, as The Long Goodbye is not actually a "paperback" novel, but it is certainly pop and subversively highbrow. Unfortunately, I failed to mention American Pastoral and have also failed to mention the Godfather which would be a really great choice as it totally and completely reflects America at that time, avoiding allegory, thank god, but still having layers upon layers of symbolism.

If you've gotten through this potentially very boring post, you're a better reader than I.

Back in the Bread Line

If there's one thing that I've learned since the new year, it's that you really only need one pair of pants. After Huey's spending a week and a half traveling in high school wearing one pair of corduroys, we coined the term "everyday pants." It was basically just to make fun of him, or ourselves should we wear the same pants too often. But let me tell you--you don't really need more than one pair of pants. I've been wearing this one pair of jeans all summer and practically all last semester. One is enough. Also, they aren't dirty and don't even smell. The only drawback is that you have to avoid rain like a mouthbreather. Because the slightest bit of moisture will unleash scent memories that your pants have recorded since the last laundry day.

Last night we tapped a watermelon and had a nice night on the porch, except it wasn't that nice. We were mostly annoyed and not remotely interested in what was to come. Luckily, the night was saved by a nice ABBA doc on WGBH. I think the exchange of the night was as follows. Me: You think economics is more important than morality?--Schnocone: It's more important than everything!

The day before I basically spent blowing off friends. I forgot I promised Schnocone we'd do an Indian buffet, and instead ended up meeting Beulah for lunch on her day in the area. And that night I ignored the Beckster and Bighead to talk to my small, curly, Haitian friend who I hadn't talked to in a long time. I'm sorry to all the snubbed involved, but whenever we see each other we basically become completely ensnarled in our own conversation. A murder could probably take place and we wouldn't notice.

Today we went to the Mt. Auburn Cemetary to see mildly famous dead guys. We saw Charles Sumner's grave which was very disappointing. We were expecting some sassy quote ripping into slavery or maybe a bloody gold cane or something to identify this pre-Civil War icon. We also saw R. Buckminster Fuller's grave which was equally disappointing. We expected a concrete geodesic dome. We got a concrete cross. Isabella Stewart Gardner's family tomb was also upsetting. Basically, it was just big, trying to prove to her neighbors that she has more cash, even in death. The most interesting was that of Edwin Booth. Booth is the brother of John Wilkes Booth, and all the info I know about him comes from reading Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation which I just finished yesterday. I plowed through it. Basically, Booth was the best Shakespearean actor of the 19th century and the Hamlet of his time. He also saved Robert Todd Lincoln's life by picking him off the train tracks after he had fallen before a train ran him over. So, as opposed to his brother, he was the Booth that saved a Lincoln's life. blah blah blah. His grave had a copper or bronze plate of his head, kind of ornate with a generic Bible quote on front and a better Shakespeare quote on the back. The best part of his gravesite, however, was, as Schnocone noted, that the headstone of his wife is simply engraved with "Wife of Edwin Booth" and not her actual name. Even their dead baby lying beside them actually got a name (Edgar). What did this woman do to deserve eternal anonymity?

In other news, somehow I've slipped back into poverty. I'm not quite sure how this happened. It's actually due to the fact that I haven't been paid in around four weeks, and this week, the first in which I was to receive a paycheck, Direct Deposit somehow screwed it up, or it got delayed, or it may be in the process of being forwarded home to Indiana. It sucks being poor. What's worse is that now I've got debts. Not major debts, but it does suck that Bighead's birthday is coming up and I may have to beg borrow and steal to actually be able to do anything for it. The other annoying thing is that I do have money. I've been working. I just have NO access to it. blech.

Friday I had a nice little lunch with Beulah where we both discussed our somewhat random existences and experiences squatting. Let's just say her squatting is way more interesting than my squatting. That sounds a little stranger than it should. However, within two days she may land a full time job, which is a little disappointing, because then our springtime fun in the office will be gone. Still, I wish her luck...mainly because the job sounds sooooo cool.

Mutha of Jeff Davis! The problem is me.

After arguing with Bighead the entire way home about whether or not Bush is smart, (I say he's not dumb...although he lacks intellectual curiosity) and whether or not there will be any indictments in the Plame scandal, I came to realize my life has a theme--arguing. Normally I blame this on Bighead and Schnocone, but I think now the problem might be me. Like Hoosier Lush likes to fight and hold grudges...I just love to argue. I can't get enough of it. If Bighead and Schnocone didn't argue while I was away last semester then the problem is totally me. I also think the problem is that sometimes people say completely ridiculous things that I cannot let go of until they admit their fallacy...something which they NEVER do. For example, about two weeks ago we were talking about the 2008 election like we always do, and I said that if Hillary runs against McCain, McCain would win a ton of Democratic crossover votes. Schnocone said that Hillary would get more Republican crossover votes than McCain would get Democratic ones because Hillary is positioning herself as an advocate for family values and a strong centrist. How can I let that go? It begs to be argued. But the fact that I'm still thinking about this further illustrates how crazy I am. I just can't let these things go. They drive me crazy. So now I realize I have a problem...but I love it. I don't care. It makes the walk from Harvard to MIT go by much faster when you're arguing with someone.

In other news, last night we celebrated the Beckster's birthday by going out. Of course, her birthday was actually Tuesday, but she ditched us to spend the night at her boyfriend's house (she just spent the entire last week in Portugal with him...sheesh). But I understand, they were apart for a long time. But now she's gone again tonight. Are we sensing a theme? Mehopes not, because otherwise I'm going to have to Lay it Down, Clown.

I'm actually going home two weeks from today which is scary. If hometime comes, can the school year be far behind? Ugh, and school year means I'll be freaking out over my thesis, still undecided, but tomorrow I'm going to speak with kflood about it. Next week I may be going to NYC to celebrate a friend's birthday. Pray for me if I do end up going.

I'm currently reading Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. I think it's easily her best book. It's much more focused, despite the fact that it jumps around a lot and is filled with Judge Ito sidebars. Huey was right, though, her idea of Spanish history explained in the preface is completely all over the place and wrong. I can't believe an editor didn't correct it. Especially since it's not obscure history. I think a good number of people know that the mark of the decline that she notes as occurring in 1588 was the fracaso of the Armada Invincible which was under Felipe II's reign, and not under that of Carlos el Hechizado. Still, the book is completely enthralling and makes me very proud of our history while at the same time infuriating me. For example, John Ashcroft, in an interview with a magazine with Confederate sympathies, praises said magazine for debunking the idea that Jefferson Davis was anything but a traitor and a racist. Oh, and this magazine also sells shirts with Lincoln's portrait on it with Sic Semper Tyrannis--Thus Always to Tyrants, meaning all tyrants like Lincoln should be killed. Can you honestly believe people still hate Lincoln? Our greatest president ever? Could you imagine how much more the South would hate him if they bothered to pick up a book and find out he was gay? That magazine also sold bumper stickers that said Clinton's Military--A gay at every porthole, a fag in every foxhole. Mutha of Jeff Davis!--It's enough to make you want to invade the South again! If it wasn't for my eating and musical tour of the South two summers ago (is it really that long ago?), I would probably think it was dispensable, too. Of course it's not. The country would not be nearly as colorful without it. I don't even think the term local color would exist without it, and American music would still revolve around Christian God Puritan church hymns, drum and fife Yankee Doodle arrangements, and British standards like God Save The Queen americanized into Our Country Tis of Thee. God I hate that song. Really...is there anything more annoying than My Country Tis of Thee? Unfortunately, too many Americans do think think the South is dispensable. On another note, how did the Southern colonies which were the antithesis of the Bible thumping Puritan North become the Bible belt. That could be a good thesis. When did this change take place? All the Great Awakening hotspots were in the North. I completely love the South, but my Chinese friend informs me that that's just because I'm white. Oh well.

Summer Laze

It's late, and I should be in bed since I have to work tomorrow in the day and bring the party to the Beckster for her 22nd birthday party in the night. However, I'm not feeling it and have decided to write a little bit here.

I just got off the phone with my former roommate Sancho Panza who will be living in South America next year which makes me incredibly jealous. His life sounds pretty good...at least entertaining. Of course, I maintain a certain confidence with Sancho, so none of that will be elaborated on here, but he always has a lot on his mind, cracking me up and boring me at the same time. Hadn't actually heard his voice in seven months, so that was more than exciting.

This weekend reminded me of how hilarious my life can sometimes be, just from an observer's perspective, without me really having any action. Between some crafty, passive-aggressive homewrecking on my friend's part disguised as a surprise visit at a birthday party in addition to denied Indian/brown fetishes proving themselves once again, to getting in trouble for relating a story and evesdropping despite the fact that I was simply relating a story that I heard the next day to dime slit eyes, to getting ditched while doing a very noble job of stealing toilet paper and Wubulu always cracking me up for reasons I don't quite understand. These are somewhat vague references, but they're going to have to suffice.

My job continues, and the training portion proves to be more exhausting than that for the CIA or FBI. I'm still maybe only halfway done, and I've been working there forever.

I don't know if I mentioned this in the blog before, but it bears repeating. Everyone around me knows this, but I have yet to elaborate on it here. I've come to the conclusion that poverty breeds crime. This would be obvious to anyone living in urban America, and of course I've known this before, but since returning to America, I know it from personal experience. For example, in my more desperate hours, when I was unemployed, crime was always popping into my head. Every time I went to the grocery store all I could think about was how much I would rather steal food than pay for it. Of course I couldn't do it, but I think that if I had gone a little longer without income it seriously would have happened. Hooking was also a very considerable option that I weighed. Honestly, I'd be a hot commodity, a fetish item, like an Asian or midget. There's got to be a specialty market for bony white boys with mullets. This actually came to me the moment I stepped out of the Chinatown bus in Boston. I was thinking about how awful it was going to be walking across Boston from South Station to the northern suburb of Cambridge, and all I could think was how much easier it would be to give a cabbie a hand job in exchange for a free ride to Eliot. Try to get that image out of your head!

Actually, I can! When Schnocone returned to South Station after spring break in Puerto Rico last year he was mulling over the idea of staying at the station until the subway restarted when he went to the bathroom to see some guy in cowboy boots defecating in a stall with the door open and...wait for it...a hobo washing his genitalia in the sink. I hate to steal the thunder of that story from Schnocone because it is oh-so-hilarious, but I needed some mental sorbet to cleanse the brain palate, and since I didn't have any, I decided to throw that rank stinking pile of garbage into your head.

Umm, this is what happens when you're basically lazing around in the summer. Your mind wanders. Currently reading Winesburg, Ohio and about to start American Pastoral in order to finish it before I go home and devote my time to finishing off Moby Dick. Yesterday I watched Todo sobre mi madre, or All About My Mother...so good. I love that imbecil Almodovar, I don't care what my Spanish parents say. Also, I'm totally freaking out for Liz Phair. Seriously, what happened? Before at least she said she wanted to make throwaway music that was catchy as hell and kind of fun, but now I read a NYTimes article where she talks about the label pressures and how she's still able to control some of her artistic decisions. This just makes me sad and mad as hell. How can a label engage in such a smear on one of the greatest minds, male or female, of pop music in the last ten years? God, they already have Sheryl Crow, why do they need a clone that can't even live up to her dumb standards and ends up compromising and falling short of even that low standard. I'm sorry, but this is really upsetting. I blame LA. This would never have happened if La Liz had stayed in Chicago. Ugh. And I don't need people who never really appreciated Guyville completely to join in my lament, because you don't really understand the fall. I care shit for credibility or hype. I'd take another whitechocolatespaceegg, but this is ridiculous.

OK, that went on a lot longer, but I realized I was ranting. In other news, nothing.