I have recently (and very temporarily) moved in with my parents. I have done this due to the fact that I am going overseas at the end of the year and couldn't work out a suitable lease arrangement for the remainder of my time here. Since moving in my car has broken down. The timing couldn't be worse as I am no longer living just around the corner from work. It makes me mad. Mad enough to kill that stupid gearbox with nothing but a cheap shifting spanner and a severe lack of oil, ACK!

My main beef though is with the stupid car's stupid replacement. Sure, it's mechanically reliable, ultra fuel efficient and it gets me from A to B. Great, perfect! Unfortunately it's also a Volkswagen Golf from about 1975. No longer do my eyes drink in the beauty of my (substantially) modified Prelude, instead they are traumatised by the too narrow-too tall kinda sqaushed looking little diesel hatch. This wretched little thing threatens to cause me much seasickness everytime I wrestle it around a bend (and wrestle it I must). The combination of loose steering, soft to the point of being ridiculous suspension and a distinct lack of stopping power conspire against the unwary driver in ways previously thought impossible (by me at least).

"But there must be some redeeming features!" I hear you cry. Well....


Let me see, there's the:

  • Engine - Loud and weak - if the engine was an optional extra I wouldn't buy it.
  • Clutch - Needlessly heavy - about 3 feet of travel.
  • Upholstery - Shot to hell - have fitted cheap seat covers in a vain attempt to lift the interior.
  • Stereo - Radio ok (!), tape only runs about ½ speed - one of two speakers make noise.
  • Wipers - Seem to only work in dry weather (I assume this is an electrical fault of some sort) - not really ideal.
  • Wasp nest - That's right, first time I opened the left rear door I was confronted with one of these on the back seat (admittedly, a backseat such as this is unlikely to see any action anyway). No longer present.
  • Ignition - Seems fine except that the key doesn't appear to fit the little key hole turning thing (the ignition barrel?) properly, in fact it's harder to turn than the lid on a salsa jar.

Ok, having said all that there are a couple of good points - for example I am enjoying being able to cruise into any driveway without slowing down (although it gets a bit bouncy). Fuel economy is good and it is basically free transport. I really shouldn't be whinging.

In the words of my imaginary VW engineer: "Sorry to waste your time with this shit"

Why is it that my daylogs are always bad? More than likely it's because I have nothing good to say of importance.

Saturday, while I was with my dad doing family related activities, my mom was helping a friend of hers buy carpeting, and well, to make a long story short, she dislocated her pinky finger and is in a splint for two weeks.

As if that wasn’t enough, today her company informed her that in two weeks she wouldn’t have a job either. Company Downsizing. C'est la vie - such is life.

Me, I'm still looking for a school. Though, I found out that I can apply to Ohio State as a transfer student, and not have to worry about getting in, since it's pretty much guaranteed that I'll get in. I am considering other schools as well, but I'm SO ready to be admitted.

I think I'm going to go skydiving soon. I really think I will enjoy that, and cannot wait for the day to arrive. I'm sure after I do it I will either daylog or node all about it. But until then, I don’t really have much to say, and my migraine is getting worse.

"Better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you're not."
-Phlogiston Verdigris 1

We bought a new VCR this weekend. The old one crapped out a couple months ago. I can probably fix it. I just need to find the time. I bought it at Sears. I saved so much money that I treated myself to a new CD at FYE.

The VCR was only $95.00. With all the features it has,it would have cost over $500.00 fifteen years ago. The cost of electronic products has been dropping like a stone for years. I had the old one disconnected and the new one installed in fifteen minutes. Sometimes I amaze myself. The old one is now a channel tuner for an ancient TV I have in the basement. Now we can watch our old movies in the LR instead of the BR, which has a little 13" TV with a built in VCR that Santa Clause brought us.

1 quote found on the back of, The Least Worst of Type O Negative

I took a chance and paid full price for that. I wasn't sorry. It was all and more than what I expected. I know its not for everybody. I remember the first time I saw TON on M-TV's 120 Minutes, one of them was playing an upright bass like a giant guitar with a chain for a strap. The guy was about seven feet tall and they kicked ass. The best part is, they still do.


Only the english language can take two words like that and make it a new word. The fact that the english speaking world can do it with a straight face is too deliciously fitting for such a word.

Isn't english supposed to be capitalized...?

Yes, I know, it's in the history of linguistics and conquests and trade and a whole nother spider web of weavings and intangibles. Isn't everything? I, for example, have a complex tapestry of history. My own conquests. My own acquisitions of tongue. Just what the fuck does it all mean? Hell, I feel cliche for even asking the question. I am unbearably light, and a conjurer of mimicry all at the same time. Soon I must escape this gravity well and float into nonexistence. Surely the time is at hand.

Oh! surly whining malcontent. Bitch, moan. Sing the sorrow of lugubrious dissonance.

Big words are such a flimsy facade for a fallow wit. My walls are crumbling before the horns and I just want a little respite. I just want to bask in significant wonder once more before I am exposed for the charlatan I am. Just one last time. I'd like to fly in my dreams, following the currents of my ancestors and tracing the marrow of their worth.



u s e l e s s   w o r d s   f o r   a   u s e l e s s   t i m e


26 years ago today, we lost the legend that is Marc Bolan.

Drunk on a cheap bottle of wine, he handed the keys over to Gloria, his lady. They were going thirty - 30 - miles an hour when they went off the road and hit a tree.

Instantly, if you wanted to know. No pain or last minute words or lingering for days in the hospital. Just gone, in the snuff of a candle.

I haven't been the same since. If you're out there, Marc, I hope you know we never stopped dancing.

A woman from the East with her headlights shining
Eased my pain and stopped my crying

"Solid Gold Easy Action", T. Rex

So i went to the east coast this past weekend... friend of mine who recently moved to Atlanta was testing for his black belt in Dartmouth, and myself and a few others went to cheer him on. We flew in from Chicago on Friday night, the test was on Saturday, and were supposed to fly back out Sunday morning at the ungodly hour of 6:15. Knowing we would be drinking heavily until near bar time to celebrate our friend's aquisition of said belt, we figured we'd just stay up all night and sleep on the plane, since we would have had to get up at 3:30 or so to get to the airport in Providence anyway.

I've been pretty lucky with traveling throughout my life. Not that there haven't been some bumps, and not that i travel all the time, but there haven't been any major hairballs.

Weekend started off great... ate at some damn good seafood place Friday night, did a workout on Saturday and met Grandmaster Choi, and watched our buddy get his black belt. Followed by a mass Chinese buffet pig out and hanging around with the Boston Tae Kwon Do crew after dinner for awhile.

Then things start getting ugly. Time to hit the bars. We have a designated driver, but he's not too great at navigating in unknown areas. Meanwhile, the rest of us get totally sloshed at some Irish pub in Dartmouth... macking on random chicks, having a great time, and all that. Many "black belt shots" imbibed. Bar time at 2, we're kicked out. We start driving in the general direction of the airport but we've got lots of time before the flight leaves, so one guy, Jeff, starts going off about how he wants to see the ocean... he's never been to either coast before. So we all think, hey what the hell, lets do it. Beach is in the complete opposite direction of airport, but it looks pretty close on the map.

Ends up taking well over an hour to get there, partly because we have to stop four times on the way so various people can get out of the car to hurl vigorously.

Get to beach. Is now 3:45. People who have not yet hurled break out bottle of Jim Beam from trunk, more hurling/ drunken revelry. Jeff starts going ape shit about being at ocean, strips off all his clothes and runs in. Others follow suit, some pass out in sand. Designated driver getting nervous. Splash around for awhile, more drinking, more hurling, back on the road towards airport. About 4:30. Most of passengers including myself passed out.

Halfway to airport we realize we are going to probably not make flight. Fuck. Driver panicky, wakes everybody up. Get to airport, is about 5:30. Made it somehow. Rental car place not yet open, have to return car to some weird ass parking lot that doesn't seem to be listed on airport direction sign thingies. Fuck fuck. Takes us 20 minutes to find lot, which is located down road from airport. Have to take shuttle from lot to airport terminal. During this time much swearing/yelling/slightly more hurling.

Get to check-in at 6:05... flight leaves in 10 minutes. Fuck. As we're in line Jeff suddenly announces he is missing his wallet.... no ID. FFUUUUUUCKK. Search all luggage, pockets, nothing. Take shuttle back to rental car, nothing. Wallet must still be at fucking beach, is long gone. Asshole guy from Northwest airlines is laughing at us. Fuck.

Flight missed. Get on standby for next flight, good thing is 3 hours away, since takes approximately this much time for ID-less guy to convince authorities is not terrorist and get boarding pass. Get on plane... hung-over/still half drunk plane rides mucho no es bueno. Try hard to hold in hurl as not sure how that would work in airplane bathroom, and don't think provided motion sickness bag will have necessary volume to contain beer/spirits of previous evening.

Get to Detroit for layover, have one hour. All feel like shit. Getting to point in recovery where food starts to sound like good idea. Detroit airport is huge, we are at gate 3, way far end of concourse. Not much time for food... start walking for what seems like ages in search of any place that will sell us food. Find McDonalds.. pretty sure is bad idea, as am still somewhat quesy, but low on time, decide fuck it, will get salad or something. Looking at salad menu, decide to try new menu item "Del Rio" Salad. Do not realize that salad has ground beef in it until too late. Veggies and greens seem to be completely coated in hamburger grease from ground beef. Looks fucking gross, think to self that McDonalds ground beef cannot possibly be good idea. But, smells kinda good, am fucking hungry, short on time. Eat 3 forkfuls, grease causes immediate caustic stomach reaction, run to bathroom in anticipation of hurl. Can't seem to force hurl... while kneeling at toilet in airport bathroom, announcement comes on that they are boarding our flight. Fuck. Run back to terminal, feeling like shit... only one other dude from our group there. Other dumbass friends still at McD's... must not have heard announcement. Sprint back to McD's... am sure am going to hurl, somehow don't. Get friends, sprint back to plane. No time to hurl, plane leaves in 10 min... they let us on. Really wish had been able to hurl, as evil grease salad makes this flight 10 times worse then last one.

Make it back to Chicago, stumble in daze to shuttle which takes us to my car. Thankfully one guy feeling awake enough to drive, am finally able to pass out in back seat for duration of ride home. Throw shit on floor, pass out for 5 hours, get up to watch Conan 10th anniversary special. Is quite funny. Am big fan of Triumph, comic insult dog's exploits. Eat dinner consisting of plain hamburger buns and water. Yum. Then bed, finally....

I subscribe to Rolling Stone. Yesterday I got the issue with Britney Spears half naked on the cover. I read the article. I had to (Come on, you know you all would have read it too). Poor kid. She really is an idiot. She came off like the airhead that we all know she is, and kinda bitchy. She said "honestly?" and "to be honest" about 100 times. She also asked the interviewer "Do you want me to be honest?" No you fucking retard, he wants you to lie to him.

I also question the interviewer and his choices of questions. One question went something like, "Aren't you afraid that people are going to expect stunts like this (the Madonna kiss) and your music is going to become secondary?" Uhh...hasn't her music always been secondary? Hasn't it been secondary since she came out in a slutted-out catholic school girl uniform? Hasn't it come secondary since she stripped on the VMA's a couple of years ago? Hasn't it come secondary since everyone found out that she was dating Justin Timberlake? Maybe it is just me. But has this interviewer ever actually listened to the words of her songs? They are not exactly thought provoking. They are fun, yes, but good? No. Most people would rather look at her ass than listen to her music.I would.

Anyway, she's a cute girl but a singer she is not. And Britney honey, if you are out there, don't do interviews. Just don't. You really shouldn't be allowed to talk. At least not with some serious prompting from your publicist or something.

I also found out that her new album has a lot of sex in it. Imagine that. Poor thing. She is trying to be "not that innocent" but I have a feeling the whole thing is going to backfire. I also have a feeling that the album is going to be a huge flop. Maybe not because America does love whores, i.e. Pam Anderson, Heidi Fleiss (Do you know all know that she has a biography out now??? I'd read it), Bill Clinton. So maybe it won't be a complete disaster, but I think this may be it for good ol' Brit. I'll miss the little slut when she is gone.

I would now like to discuss my complete hatred of the song, "Stacey's mom." I prayed to Satan himself that this pathetic excuse for a song would not make it to 92.9, the only radio station I listen to. I saw it on MTV2 and thought to myself, "Dear god, what is that? Are they passing that off as music now?" For a while there, I hadn't heard it on 92.9 so I thought I was okay. But low and behold, it came to 92.9. I'm sure some 12-year-old who thought the song was cool and an actual "rock" song kept requesting it until 92.9 broke down and played it. These are probably the same 12-year-olds that keep requesting Dashboard Confessional. If I ever ever find you, run. Please, it's for your own good. If any of you out there like Dashboard Confessional or that damn Stacey's mom song, that's fine. It is just not my taste. My opinion on Dashboard Confessional and whoever sings that fucking "Stacey's Mom" song (you can also throw in Good Charlotte into that group as well) is that it sucks. Plain and simple. Whoever gave these cunt rags a microphone much less a record deal should be shot. Seriously. Or at least just beaten. Anyway, I'm straying from my point...

My name is Stacey. I always liked my name...until now. I work in an office. An office with people a lot older than I am. People who still think they are they "hip." Not a day goes by where a salesman/customer service rep/or any employee for that matter, doesn't come by my cube and say, "Hey Stacey, you're mom has got it going on!" Funny. Original. Now every Tom, Dick and Harry (Literally, those really are their names) now has license to comment on a bit of pop culture b/c not only has this song made it's way to my favorite alternative/metal radio station, it has also mosied on over to adult contemporary. Those GD 12-year-olds. They are ruining the music industry one BRATZ doll at a time.

Operation Pull Up Quick To Retrieve It

Mission 1 | Mission 2

Baby, please, you must be outta your mind
Do I look like I want your dirty denim?
Listen up, I'm only sayin' this one more time
Can you hear me say that I don't want your dirty denim?

- Excerpt from a Joint Donnas of Staff report “Reasons Against Conflict

People have been asking me how the Operation is going, so I figure I should bring you up to speed. After the inconclusive evening that was Mission 2, I had to admit that I was at a bit of a loss what to do next. Wendy did not give me a clear signal one way or the other, so honestly my remaining plan was simply to hang out with her just as I was doing before, until I eventually grew the fucking balls necessary to just ask her out. Yes, I know this sounds like the pussy way to do things, but let’s face it, that’s how it was going to go down no matter what cockamamie schemes I told myself I was going to try.

So Wendy and Jim (my best friend, who introduced me to the woman in this little soap opera) their other roommate threw a little end of summer barbecue at their place. Naturally I was invited and there was a pretty large turnout, mostly Notre Dame people that I didn’t know, but a smattering of some of my other friends were there. So there was sitting and talking and watching football and eating. Wendy was too busy being super-hostess for me to get much of a chance to talk with her.

My oldest female friend Elizabeth comes over to me while her fiancée Mike and I are swearing at a group of large men’s inability to throw a brown ball to each other with any sort of precision, and she says “I don’t know about this whole ‘You and Wendy’ thing.”


“I mean she doesn’t seem right for you”

“But you just met her tonight!”


It is at this point that I realize she is bluffing me. I give her a hard look and say, “All right, spill.” And after some prodding Elizabeth tells me the whole story. Apparently Wendy had caught onto my intentions and had a talk with Jim about it, who then later ended up mentioning to Elizabeth. Wendy said she felt that it probably wasn’t a good idea for us to start a relationship because there would be too much interference from the fact that she was living with one of my friends. Would I be coming over to see my girlfriend Wendy or my friend Jim? When she and I would want to go off alone he might be around and I would have to tell him to back off. And what if the relationship went sour? How awkward would those visits be when I came over to hang with Jim?

The question of whether or not these reasons are valid and true I leave as an exercise to the reader.

Now hearing this news was a disappointment, but it certainly wasn’t surprising or devastating. I realized that in the pursuing of any relationship there is always a chance of rejection, so I undertook this whole action with a “Hey, just give it a shot” attitude, because the possible benefits certainly outweighed any negative outcomes. So this was somewhat expected. C’est la vie.

After receiving the news, a small smile spread across my face as I said “Well, I guess that brings an end to Operation Pull Up Quick To Retrieve It.”

Mike suddenly turned to me, laughing, “Dude, that kicks ass! That is the best name I ever heard for…AWWW CATCH THE DAMN BALL, SON!!”

So him and me get along pretty well.

Today is also my birthday and, appropriately enough, I have been reading the writeups in I was supposed to be somebody by the age of 23 and I was thinking about what I wanted to be, what my life goals were, job, money, wife, kids, etc. What would it take to define me as a “somebody”?

And I realized that I already have it. In many facets of my life I am surrounded by wonderful people. I have many friends that, in the words of borgo, “I think would crawl over broken glass if I asked them to. I know I would do the same, if not more.” I have a job that pays me enough money to let me live in the style that I wish, and I will be finally finishing college soon. Habakkuk hits it right on the head with his contribution to the node “But if being somebody means investing in the lives of your friends and family then you will find the rest of this stuff just doesn't matter.”

Damn straight.

I also share a birthday with B.B. King, Lauren Bacall, Tim Raines, Mickey Rourke, Allen Funt, Peter Falk, and Kurt Fuller (a total “that guycharacter actor who was in No Holds Barred (“Jockass!!”) and Wayne’s World). Quite a diverse and cool group if there ever was one.

Strange how things play out sometimes.

6:10ish am. I'm sitting at Colonial and Bumby waiting for the horoscope to come on the radio (always between 6:10 and 6:15). I know the light is about to change to green, and I'm watching that too.

I think I heard it before I saw it, but I'm not sure so don't quote me. CRUNCH! and flashes of white and silver. A car resembling a cadillac and an SUV are flying through the air in the middle of the intersection. I felt nothing as the caddie hit the ground and skidded across the road directly toward me. Instead my brain instantly began a meek attempt at calculating its speed and trajectory and whether I'd be able to drive my own car away after it hit me.

The vehicle stopped a foot from my own. Just beyond it, the SUV was laying on it's passenger side. I turned on my hazards and turned off the engine, knowing I was the only barrier between oncoming traffic and them, and jumped out of my barely missed compact. The light turned green in my direction and surrounding cars started moving.

I ran to the cadillac. There were two men in it. The passenger looked at me and put his hands up, surprised, but obviously okay. The driver simply looked scared, but also alright. Then my brain went into overdrive. I ran to the SUV and looked in through the tinted windshield. The man inside was literally hanging by his seatbelt. He wasn't moving, but he was conscious.

I ran back to my car, unhooked my cellphone from my purse, and called 911 (when one is in emergency mode, one tends to forget their credit cards are in easy reach). The caddie guys were already getting out of their wreck. By the time I got back to the SUV, it was surrounded by people who had stopped to help. They'd managed to get him to unlock his driver side door and had it open. A smoky substance was billowing from within. Shit. "Don't move him!" I yelled. Something told me that smoke wasn't fire, and I was more worried about them killing him if he happened to have a fractured neck or any somesuch.

Someone had managed to get into the vehicle from the back door. He was perched behind the driver with his hand out to the fellow. I asked him to open the back passenger door to let more of the smoke out. The driver started moving. I ran around again and peered in. He had managed to loosen himself enough to get his feet in the direction of the ground and was removing the belt. "Get him out! He's moving on his own! Help him out!"

Within seconds he was out in the open, behind the SUV. He stood no taller than 5 feet, and probably weighed no more than I, a little Asian guy. He could have been anywhere between 60 and 120 years old by the look of him. Barefoot. Long pointy beard like one might imagine to be on Confucius. And as it turned out later, he spoke no English.

I demanded the two nearest men carry him to my car so he wouldn't slice his feet up trying to walk through the sea of broken glass. They complied, one on each side hoisting him up, and deposited him in the back seat. I rubbed his upper back gently, a subconscious attempt at comfort, and sent a third witness for water from the grocery on the corner (amazing how everyone jumps to move in a crisis when someone, anyone, takes the lead, even when the leader acts without thinking).

The firetrucks arrived, and then everything in the world happened in the backseat of my car. One fireman somehow managed to get through to him to extend his arm so his blood pressure could be taken. They asked him questions. "Confucius" stared and shook his head. The ambulance arrived. They decided he should go, as he appeared to have signs of difficulty with his heart. The fireman told him they'd take him to the hospital. He stared some more. A firewoman and I yelped "doctor" at him in stereo, hoping he'd understand that word, at least. He looked pained. He wanted so much to know what we said, but he didn't.

So they simply put a neckbrace on him, carefully placed him on the stretcher, strapped him in, and rolled him to the ambulance. The resident police officer kicked the caddie's headlight out of my way and let me go about my business, although he could tell I was pretty shaken up and made the suggestion I go home. Work was closer, though, as I live 40 miles outside of Orlando.

The rest of the day was uneventful, except for the death of the copier at work. Whatever. I always hated that copier anyway. But all day I still wondered. What of that poor guy, so new to this country that he didn't even know the words "hospital" or "doctor"? What was he thinking while people gathered around him, carried him around, dumped him in strangers' cars, and then carried him off in straps to some unknown destination?

I hope he wasn't more terrifed than the shock of the accident would indicate. I hope he knew we were trying to help.

I got home and there was a six pack of my favorite Asian beer, "Kirin Ichiban" (not usual) in the fridge, waiting. It might not be from whichever country the man came from, but it's a symbol nonetheless. Here's to you, Confucius. I hope you're okay.

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