It seems that my monitor as reported yesterday was playing a cruel trick on me for nefarious purposes of getting me to go to bed early.

Needless to say, that wasn't the end result of its non-functionality, as I instead found myself drawn to the dumb terminal to read up on the 20 worst nintendo games ever made (despite never having owned such a system) until my eyes could no longer focus on the amber blur and remained in bed, despondant at my lack of computage-ability, until approximately noon, whereupon I awoke, took a spiteful swat at the dysfunctional screen, thought it was worth giving another go, and it went.

Problems that go away by themselves come back by themselves, but I like the notion of a bit of randomness in my life. The free will pill is a bit easier to swallow if I can project its effects on to inanimate objects as well as merely-mostly-inanimate ones like myself. I don't feel like shooting electrons today - lemme alone!

To further the change of pace, I squirmed out of tonight's Living Closet meeting to help a new friend mount an effort attacking a massive mailout and was presented with a vaguely disarming spectacle: a picture of myself in crayon on the wall in a place I'd never been before. With a bit of prodding the hamster started running in its wheel and I figured out the context behind the text (that is, the source of drawing) though its motivation remains unclear at best.

That was complemented well with my whim on the way home to stop at my favorite diner the Templeton for a nice cool 11 pm apple milkshake to restore my body into the shape it had been before the post-mailout DDR orgy. As I poked my head in the door and asked if it would be open long enough for the consumption of such (negligible - I suck them down almost faster than they're prepared, brain freeze be damned!) the waitress asked me how the poetry was going. Aroo? It turns out that she'd seen me a couple weeks previously performing possibly my best set all year at the new venue (the Brickhouse) that opened mere blocks from my house. It's so easy to assume that no one's listening while you're up on stage, but this is terrifying proof to the contrary.

Pair the recollection (to be fair, in my median couture, I am rarely forgotten) with the discovery of the crayon drawing of me and we have proof that the notion of me is out there in the popular consciousness! Read the part past "The performance persona and paradigm" to see just how I feel about being a successful meme and as my closing words on my history of crushes suggest, this is re-introducing me to interesting and dangerous places, both mentally and hopefully physically.

Just finished don marquis' archy and mehitabel; was so delighted by it that I have entered into a compact with Quizro to node it in its entirety. Apparently Doubleday is still defending its copyright, but given that most of the individual poems are ~85 years old, we reserve the right to not respect it. Now reading: (picked up while in an inport / foreign-language bookstore with ex-roommate thext in town for a week as a summer surprise) Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death. I am more than willing to read anything they had to say. Also got the opportunity to advise thext on purchases: got him interested in some Patrick Suskind and on my word he bought a copy of Camus' La Peste.

Am slowly furthering the art of communicating with Maxwell through the application of a slide whistle.

    toot too-oot

    cheep chirp!

    TEE-oot too-EET!

    chip ip ip eep!

Not only which, I can perform solos from Groove is in the Heart for any and all interested parties.

Sleep now! (wave hand at own face and slump on desk with a satisfying thwack!) The upcoming day holds for me: catching up at philomosophamaphy in class (we should be on Locke by now, but who knows how far we've diverged from the schedule), figuring out what happened to my spokes at the bike shop, meeting up for a last conversation with a end-of-only-week-in-town-all-year friend, getting my ass down to the grand finale of the Symphony of Fire fireworks and hopefully taking a dip in a friend's pool at the end of it all.

Everyone will no doubt remain flabbergasted by how much I make out of such a paucity of real and significant events. I suppose I must have an extremely busy internal life which I feel strangely compelled to share once in a while.

Despite which, I shall not resume the inclusion of Everything Observations! No comments as to what flotsam has washed up next to what piece of jetsam; no remarks on Ching!s, votes or totals of how much over what value, because even if those might be statistically compelling, I have only so much headspace, and I prefer to save it for things that I might touch. No, scratch that; for things that might touch me. Individual writeups and anthologies of noders definitely have that ability, but numbers and even collections of numbers exist independent of my observation, and my assigning significance to them does not make more of them; it makes less of me.

Betcha didn't realize you could fit so much in the span between a hand-wave and its accompanying thwack, didja? I think fast, man. It's so fast, fuck man, you couldn't pick it up, man.

Talk about fast - this has acquired a three reputation in the time it took me to integrate my soft-links. There are only 20 of you online right now, even! This flagrant and, dare I say, copious expenditure of votes on day log entries disturbs me profoundly; a recent non-noteworthy day log entry of mine topped out at over 30 reputation. We must stop this insanity! What, reputation 6 now? What, are you going to upvote me until I go away? I can't tolerate people being nice to me, so you never know, it just might work. If good things keep happening to me, I'll die!

Goddamnit, which one of you motherfuckers chinged this? After I get up in the morning I'll kill ya! I'll tear your arms off and beat you to death with them! First I will look you up in the Cool Archive. And then... well, we'll just say they'll be calling you "Stumpy" from then on. Not that you'll be around to be called such a diminutive nickname for long...

Sweet christing potato! A user named "Stumpy" already exists!... and I'm reasonably sure he's not the one who chinged me. Howabout we just call you "Limbless Bleeding Mess of Wasted Humanflesh Soon To Be Wormfood"? Nice and terse, just how I like it...


in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...