happy october, motherfucker. time for ceremonial rage: catholic rocker cowboy faggot drag. break out the silver and turquoise, kohl, and rotten black cherry eyeshadow and hair, the same white t-shirt and jeans every day; i smell fucking awful: sickly sweet too much cologne over consecutive nights of clubbing, fucking people i don’t even like in alleyways, too much booze and burning gasoline on belmont. pull out the revco, johnny cash, and by the way: the devil does drugs (6.7mb mp3 replaces former big gay dance party) and i like him (courtesy bunny). guess i finally got angry. i want my fucking boyfriend and i want him now. chicago’s not sleeping for a while.
to all the kind souls who have sent along that onion story: thank you. now stop it.
all that glitters is now irrelevant. feeling wisful? (nytimes)
“i’ve had my share of losers, but you—you boinked the undead. ick.” the ultimate buffy guide, epsiodes 1 thru 56. (ew)
housekeeper called in early: check
cats advised to behave: check
time off from work (white lie): check
dinner reservations: check
(got a date with a total hottie next week.)
dunno how many have been seeing personal art made aprés-explosion, even though it is fairly clearly displayed around the web. i’ve seen pundits calling it “a new breed of outsider art.” (god, i wish i could dig up a link for that, but i’m coming up blank.) i’m not sure, in this case, if outsider art is the right terminology; that’s a term indicating art made by one excluded. this, however, seems different: it’s art not intended for the markets, and it’s kind of impossible to create “outsider art” in circumstances where the market’s not even a factor and the impetus for creation affects everyone, right..? am i misinterpreting the term “outsider?”
loving the NY Times’ current proclivity for giving tidy “chapter titles” to every element of what’s going on (see sidebar on the front page). what is this, some cloak and dagger espionage novel? gimme a break. as if the term “war of terrorism” wasn’t suspect enough (one man’s terrorist is another’s prophet), we’re served pithy and irresponisble literary device with not much information to back it up. and you just know some editor’s creaming himself with visions of awards dancing in his head…
this, combined with dubya’s opening announcement timed for sunday football kickoff time. Joe Sixpack probably woke up long enough to wave a flag, pop a bud, and go back to sleep. excuse me while i repair my bullshit meter. it’s been quivering in the red zone for weeks now. the strain’s a bit much.
i just spotted the first christmas ad of the holiday shopping season. only 76 shopping days left!
(santa, i’d like a claw hammer this year…)
so what’s an appropriate gift for the woman who has everything on her 327th birthday, anyway? (not her….her.) clothing? jewelry? and how would one present such a gift? i’m at a loss.
twelve shopping days, boys. get crackin’.
maureen dowd gets unhinged. someone please explain to me the purpose of such a shrill voice in an op-ed piece. the author comes off as an overpriveleged brat with no real-world experience. also reinforces my belief that people who believe in rules should be watched closely.
your humble host is now officially a dot com casualty.
anyone wanna have lunch? i’m free now.
i’ve been taking some r and r. taking care of money issues, reading, doing some behind-the-scenes work here, taking care of things neglected since i took the silly corporate job. you understand my antisocial spurts, right? right. but i think i’m back for a while, baby. miss me?
lookie what i found while i was away: kitties and bunnies.
you’ll want to poke at that bunny for a while.
thanks for the pick-me-up, boyfriend.
proto-language: did spoken language arise from insitnctual gesture and facial expression? a fascinating proposal which my fiend brought to my attention some weeks ago. other articles on related linguistic topics are available as well, but this one struck a chord based on a class i was supposed to teach at the big silly corporate job before things, erm, changed.
guilty confession: i can find nothing wrong with britney’s new single. in fact, i adore it.
which could possibly mean that i am a homosexual.
every year near my home on chicago’s gorgeous northwest side: the annual all hallow’s eve parade, begun seven years ago by redmoon theatre. bring mementos of your dead: this is the night to honor them. and, fa chrissakes, dress up!
(does anyone have any decent logan square links? i found nothin’ that portrays the neighborhood accurately.)
from my brother: “(my son Kobalt) is great- he is learning to wave. Actually I think he is learning that when he has a spasm in his hand his dad gets all giddy.”
cute as a little tiny button.
