Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Did I Mention That I Moved?

I think, a few posts ago, I mentioned that I was moving to Lawrence Hall, on Brattle Street in Cambridge. Here's a photo:

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Lesley tells people that they acquired the dorm from the Episcopal Divinity School because they had an overflow of students and the Episcopals were kind of lacking, but in reality, it's a school for mutants and all the real shit goes down underground.

Ask Me About My Thousand Yard Stare. It Didn't Sell On E-Bay, So I've Still Got It, And I Think We Should Talk About It.

So you guy's see the Patriots rape the Vikings last night? How sweet was that?

I went to a Halloween Party at my friend Steve's apartment this past Saturday, and it was a good time, all in all, but the one thing that I do want to make a note of is this costume that blew everyone else's out of the water.

There was a kid who went as MySpace, which was pretty good, but nothing beat the kid who went as a robot that should shoot fireworks out of his enormous robot penis.

I'm not kidding. Just picture this set of black spray painted boxes wandering awkwardly through the streets of Allston, shooting rockets out of a massive tube attached to the groin. It was amazing.

Tonight actually is the real Halloween, and from what I've heard, the wiccans are especially excited because this brand of Halloween only comes once every twenty years.

That could easily be a lie, someone just told me that (something about goats turning into huge bats the size of goats, killing other animals, but then we drink their blood), but whether or not it's true doesn't really matter, because even if it's got some kind of merit, we're still talking about wiccan's here, and they're completely out of their minds.

Their dark, small, minds.

You really want a good scare for Halloween? You know how it's always scary walking through cemetaries and shit? Try waiting until like 11 and then walking from Mass Ave to Forest Hills along the orange line path. The ghosts in the cemetary are really just your eyes playing tricks on you, but the insane drug addicts at Stony Brook are very, very real.

Uhhhhh! OOOOHHHHH! Boo! Giiiiivvvveeee Meeeeee YYooooouuuuurrr Sneeeeaaaakkkkeeerrsssss!!!

- - - -

I have a lot of aspirations. I'd like to win an award for something one day. I realized last night, lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, that I actually wouldn't want to win a Tony Award. Don't ask me why, I just don't find them appealing. I've got nothing against theater, it's just something about the Tony Award.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

You Should Buy This Album, And Know This Story

The Walkemen's newest release, Pussy Cats Starring The Walkmen, is a remake of John Lennon And Harry Nilsson's original release. If you've never heard of the album, here's a bit from Wikipedia:

1974 found Nilsson back in California, and when John Lennon moved there during his separation from Yoko Ono, the two musicians rekindled their earlier friendship. Lennon was intent upon producing Nilsson's next album, much to Nilsson's delight. However, their time together in California became known much more for heavy drinking and drug use than it did for musical collaboration. In a widely publicized incident, they were ejected from the Troubadour nightclub in West Hollywood for drunken heckling of the Smothers Brothers. Both also caused property damage during binges, with Lennon trashing a bedroom in Lou Adler's house, and Nilsson throwing a bottle through a thirty-foot hotel window.

To make matters worse, Nilsson ruptured a vocal cord during the sessions for this album, but he hid the injury due to fear that Lennon would call a halt to the production. The resulting album, Pussy Cats, which may charitably be described as "uneven", was a shock for listeners who knew Nilsson as one of the best singers of his generation.



If that doesn't make you want to head out right now and buy both albums, I don't know what will.

Here's to rock and roll.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

I'm So Out Of Here

I got a call on my cellphone today from the director of my dorm (oddly named Matt McDonald, my brother's name) and found out that I'm slated to move into Lawrence Hall at the Episcopal Divinity School in Harvard Square, about a half mile from Lesley's main campus and maybe a mile from the Porter Exchange building, where all of my classes are.

Lawrence is the dorm I was supposed to move into when I first got here, but I've been living in the freshman-designated White Hall since September.

I was excited about this move, because I'll finally be surrounded with people my own age, and when you're twenty, living with eighteen year olds can be a trying experience. Take this, for example:

Now keep in mind, this is my last day in this room.

I'm reading in my bed (Marisha Pessl's Special Topics In Calamity Physics, a great book, by the way.) and someone knocks on the door.

"It's open."
"..."
"Come in, it's open."
WHAM WHAM WHAM
"I said it's open man, jus-"
WHAM WHAM WHAM
"Hold on, hold on..."
WHAM WHAM WHAM

I open the door and it's Duke, an illegal ex-roommate with a grill that says "PIMP" across the four front teeth. He pushes his way into the room.

"Yo Where's Brian?"
"Brian's not here."
"Where he at?"
"I think he's at practice."
"When he get back?"
"I have no idea."
"You take a picture with your computer?"
"What?"
"Your computer take pictures?"
"No."
"Yo take my picture with this money."
"What?"
"Take my picture with this money, Ima show these motheafuckin faggots wassup."

So Duke hands me a disposable camera and pulls what looks to be about twelve hundred dollars and change out of his wallet, then poses, first giving me the middle finger and sneering, then throwing a gang sign (an OK sign turned ninety degrees, exposing the pinky, ring, and middle fingers, which vaguely look like an E, for East Coast, I'm guessing.)

After I take the pictures he alludes to a "faggot that's been sayin' shit to [his] girl" and leaves the room.

Five or so minutes later, my roommate of the last four days, Bryon, is thrown through the door and into his chair. It's Duke again, "Take my picture with the computer bitch."

So after a bit of manhandling, Duke manages to get Bryon to take several photos of him (again, with the money) and proceeds to post them on MySpace.

Alright, yeah, the drug money, the gang signs, the middle finger, the grill, that's pretty gangsta. The photos? Well, that's a little vain, but I guess even gangstas need documentation, but MySpace?

I wasn't aware of the fact that street cred had hit the international circuit via online social networking websites.

Did I mention that I'm headed about a half mile down the road on Friday? The only thing I know about this new hall is that a girl named Lindsay from my Modern Drama class lives there. She says very little in class, is extremely nordic looking, my height, wears a lot of North Face clothing, and has a boyfriend who I am sure is not Duke.

I'm going to listen to Spoon and go watch Sophie Innerfield make her live debut at All Asia.

White people music, you dig?

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Another Conversation With My Mother

beebeworkerbee: just faxed the request to remove your exclusion on the lincoln. welcome to my driving world.
colonial wankers: haha
beebeworkerbee: you will notice how nice I keep the inside of my car right?
colonial wankers: im gonna race it on 128 while youre away
colonial wankers: 2 fast 2 furious
beebeworkerbee: you do know how important that car is to me Mr. Fast?
colonial wankers: TOKYO DRIFT
beebeworkerbee I am almost 50 and it's the first car I've ever owned.
beebeworkerbee: Even with total insurance, I would not be able to replace that, right? you know where I am on this?
colonial wankers: it's worth it's weight in chicks!
beebeworkerbee: It certainly is when I'm in it.

Piebald

So I'm walking down Mass Ave. late last night, and no one's around. In the distance, I see this guy walking towards me. As I get closer, I realize it's Andrew Bonner, the bass player in Piebald. The weird thing is, I'm listening to Piebald's "100% Good," so not only am I listening to his band, I'm listening to his killer bass line on my iPod. He was listening to his iPod too, and, for a moment, I thought that we were both going to turn into black silhouettes and dance (to Piebald) while waving our respective iPod's around ourselves, making crazy light ribbons or something.

Didn't happen though. Maybe next time.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Conversation With My Mother

beebeworkerbee (3:33:00 PM): He thinks he has figured out how they constructed Stonehenge. Oh, you got a McSweeney's magazine in the mail. Believer.
colonial wankers (3:34:26 PM): oh, good
beebeworkerbee (3:41:06 PM): Oh. Question. why do you have a bag full of camel boxes?
colonial wankers (3:41:57 PM): im saving those for a collage
colonial wankers (3:42:30 PM): there is other refuse in there as well. im beginning to think it is a doomed project.
beebeworkerbee (3:45:24 PM): in my mind it is
beebeworkerbee (3:46:54 PM): the car is just a nightmare. Maybe it could be an art "installation". Fill the car with trash, not just the backpack. oh, not trash, refuse. Such a nice word.
beebeworkerbee (3:47:38 PM): Have any idea where the title to that car is?
colonial wankers (3:48:06 PM): not the faintest.
colonial wankers (3:48:21 PM): it could be in the glove box with the registration
colonial wankers (3:48:29 PM): theres a binder thing in there
beebeworkerbee (3:50:04 PM): no. the binder thing was on the floor of the way-back.
beebeworkerbee (3:50:26 PM): the glove box contained something growing and several camel boxes
colonial wankers (3:50:33 PM): growing?
beebeworkerbee (3:50:35 PM): as well as a native american cigarette box
colonial wankers (3:50:39 PM): maybe it is an art installation
beebeworkerbee (3:50:41 PM): yes, growing.
beebeworkerbee (3:50:46 PM): it was waving at me
beebeworkerbee (3:50:53 PM): it was soft and squooshy
colonial wankers (3:51:05 PM): maybe super cigarettes will grow out of it
beebeworkerbee (3:51:07 PM): it was also found attached to loose change
beebeworkerbee (3:51:22 PM): like barnacles, but more sewage -y
beebeworkerbee (3:52:44 PM): I thought I was going to have to use goo gone on my hands after being in the car. I don't think I've ever encountered that kind of dirt before. The steering wheel actually gave me the dry heaves.
beebeworkerbee (3:53:40 PM): I only hope WGBH will take it.

Friday, October 13, 2006

A Statement From Deval Patrick

This is already on Deval Patrick's website, but I'm recreating it here. Again, I don't like to write about anything political unless I'm making fun of it, but I followed the race for govenor a little bit this week, and what is going on is utterly disgusting. Disgusting. So here's this:

STATEMENT FROM DEVAL PATRICK

BOSTON—Friday, October 13, 2006—The following is a statement from Deval Patrick.

“For nineteen months now, I have answered every one of your questions. Today I just need to speak my mind.

Thirteen years ago, while living in San Diego, California, my sister Rhonda was the victim of a sexual assault. I have not made her experience a subject of this campaign, because I believe it serves no victim to have to relive such a thing in the public eye. But the media today has tried to take that option from me.

The assailant was her husband Bernie. He plead guilty to the charge and served a short time in jail in California.

In 1995, about a year after my sister moved to Milton, she and her husband reconciled. They took a personal crisis and rebuilt a life. They have raised two wonderful children. They are deacons in their church and live a deeply religious faith. They celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary this past summer with a recommitment ceremony. They now counsel troubled couples.

Their lives are about redemption, forgiveness and grace. I am proud of their turnaround and I love them both.

I got into this race with no illusions. In a world where negative campaigns are commonplace, I expected to have my own accomplishments trivialized, my own judgments questioned, my life choices challenged. I haven’t always liked it, but I knew it was a price I would have to pay to be an agent of change -- not just in our policies, but in our politics.

And I took the time to prepare my family for what I thought would be coming.

My sister and her husband went through a difficult time, and through hard work and prayer, they repaired their relationship and their lives. Now they and their children -- who knew nothing of this -- have had their family history laid out on the pages of a newspaper. Why? For no other reason than that they had the bad luck to have a relative who is running for governor. It’s pathetic and it’s wrong. By no rules of common decency should their private struggles become a public issue. But this is the politics of Kerry Healey. It disgusts me. And it must be stopped.

Kerry Healey has never offered a single reason why she should be governor that doesn’t depend on tearing me down. She has no vision, no plan, no positive agenda, and no leadership experience. Her record on jobs and the economy, on health care, on higher education, on crime has been one of shortcuts, gimmicks and failure. And so rather than deal with that, she has done everything she can to change the subject.

Well, my message to the Healey campaign is that I will not let you run from your record any longer. You can try all you want to change the subject and shift the blame, but we are going to expose for all just how your failed policies and your failed politics are the reason so many people are stuck and struggling and losing hope. The garbage peddlers who shopped this story around town are part of that failed politics, too.

We are going to ask the people to choose whether the politics of fear, division and personal destruction is what they want or whether we’re better than that and are ready to finally throw out those who dump this trash in the public square.

We need a change. Gimmicks, slogans and dirty politics is no substitute for progress. The politics of fear is no acceptable alternative to the politics of hope. That’s the change we need. And if anybody in the Healey campaign or in the public thinks I am unwilling to fight for that, you have badly underestimated me.”

Thursday, October 12, 2006

A Poem, Unedited, Written On (And About) The Train

Red Line

The Braintree train rolls in two directions,
in and out, in and
out, the
old hell bassinet, filled to the brim
with the suds of infants. The Braintree

train is a black and tan-
more of a black and white- like spit up,
their skin, on the black of mother's sweater.

Every girl has a destination.

Every snake has a two way tongue, every train has a roar
and a tone, like they're
paging mother in Macy's- can you hear it?
The bassinet is rocking
wildly, giving birth to planets

The womb is in the river.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Crushed Bugs!

I don't know if you saw today's "Get Fuzzy" or not (I read it every day, along with F-Minus, and I'm not ashamed of that at all.), but here it is, for those of you who didn't see it:


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(Ha, and yeah, that's probably a massive copyright infringement. Sorry Darby. I really like your comic, and I promise I'll buy your new book to balance things out.)

Anyway, someone (namely me) actually did "google it," and that someone found this in BusinessWeek:


"When you dig into a strawberry Yoplait yogurt, take a moment to contemplate where the beautiful pink color comes from. Strawberries? Think again. It comes from crushed bugs. Specifically, from the female cochineal beetles and their eggs. And it's not just yogurt. The bugs are also used to give red coloring to Hershey Good & Plenty candies, Tropicana grapefruit juice, and other common foods."

Yeah, they're being real with it. Cochineal Extract is actually crushed bugs.

This is something everyone else already knew, but I was totally unaware, and it blew my mind.

That isn't to say that I'm going to change my yogurt diet in any way whatsoever, but just think. Crushed bugs!

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Fear Of Sleep

Alright, it's three o'clock in the morning and I can't sleep, and I'm wearing the headphones, and the headphones are plugged into my computer, and there isn't any music playing. I'm just going to sit here and wear the headphones. If there's a better time to write, you tell me when it is. If you can describe to me a better physical and environmental situation, well, we'll really have something going here.

I've been trying to start this play, that story, etc etc, and I'm telling you, I can't write anything. I can't write anything, and I can't sleep. I don't have a single good idea floating around in my head. I'm not making connections. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm dividing my reading time between Edmund Spenser, Anton Chekov, Oscar Wilde, Franz Kafka, and William S Burroughs.

So I'm thinking of starting something called "THE COSMIC ADVENTURES OF LUNCHBOX AND OTTOMAN: A ONE ACT PLAY OF SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS IN SPACE."

Big in Japan. I can feel it.

But how can I dig myself out of this rut? I've been trying these Vitamin C tablets, but they haven't been helping much. (NB: I probably should have bronchitis, seeing as I've been exposed to a lot of it, I never sleep, and I happen to live in a dorm, but the Vitamin C has been saving me.)

This has gone absurd enough. I'm going to listen to Sunset Rubdown, and I suggest that you all do the same.

If I sleep at all I'd better have some Michel Gondry dreams.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Let's All Burn Out Together

I am inspired by August Strindberg's The Ghost Sonata, and I think that I am going to try to write a play.

I like Strindberg because he's so miserable. And because he hated Ibsen. And because (I suspect) he hated women.

Anyway, read The Ghost Sonata and dig what I am digging. It is bizarre and wonderful, and I don't want to subject it to too much deconstructive criticism because once you get something, it's dead in a lot of ways. This, I think, is especially true with theater.

My other lit class begs to differ, but fuck it. There's a distinct difference between modernism and Edmund Spenser.

Speaking of Spenser, I'll be spending the night with him.

I'll leave you with this:

MUMMY. But I can stop time in its course. I can wipe out the past and undo what is done. but not with bribes, not with threats-- only through suffering and repentance. (She goes up to the old man) We are miserable human beings, that we know. We have erred and we have sinned, we like all the rest. We are not what we seem, because at the bottom we are better than ourselves, since we detest our sins.

Red Sox Wrap Up

Yesterday, some guy I never heard of pitched five perfect innings before a rain out and the Red Sox beat the Orioles 9-0. It was a disappointing year for the Sox, and this offseason promises to be even more tumultuous than the last, what with the Manny Ramirez question, the probable departure of Trot Nixon, the announced move of Jonathan Papelbon to the starting rotation, Keith Foulke's retirement "threats," etc.

I dodn't write much about the Red Sox this year, mostly because, like everyone else, I smelled the smoke when Josh Beckett started giving up more home runs than anyone in the history of the world. The Globe put out an analysis of each player, and I'm going to kind of do the same thing, just to put some closure on this shit.

I like Kevin Youkilis. I think a lot of people like Kevin Youkilis. He plays like a Red Sox guy that everyone would like. He's versatile, and he gets pissed really easily, and I like that.

Mark Loretta is like the new John Olerud. He's quiet, and when you read his stats, you think "Jesus, he's doing that well?" His defense is stellar, and he hit better than Youkilis on the year at .285, which, you know, I really don't have a problem with. A consistent .285 hitter is just as good if not better than someone hitting .330 and then occasionally going on a 2 for 65 streak because it's a certain month. (cough, Manny Ramirez, cough).

When it comes to Alex Gonzalez's glove, I'm sold. That's all I'll say on the subject.

Mike Lowell surprised us all by being consistent (putting up numbers almost exactly like Loretta), and more of an impact than Josh Beckett, the guy that was supposed to lead us to the World Series. I can't take any issue with the infield.

Everyone loves Alex Cora, but can he play every day? We said that about Kevin Youkilis, and we were wrong, but we're going to be right eventually. I'm a little wary.

Who the hell is Dustin Pedroia? New prospect, top of the line, ship shape- 1 for 40 in his first 40 at bats. Fuck him, I've been nice to everyone else.

Jason Varitek is clearly a huge part of the pitching aspect, and he struggled with injuries, but he's also a dick, I learned this summer.

Doug Mirabelli doesn't wear batting gloves.

Manny Ramirez is a sociopath. A sociopath who hits .320.

Coco Crisp played hurt for most of the season, but you can't make too many excuses- the guy was supposed to be a lot better than he was. He didn't reach our expectations.

Eric Hinske isn't even going to be mentioned.

I'm not going to say anything bad about Wily Mo Pena because he's a monster and I think he knows who I am.

It doesn't matter what I think of Trot Nixon. He was a cool guy, he'll be gone soon, and he totally does steroids. I mean, his muscle seperated from the bone while he was swinging the bat.

Gabe Kapler gets an A regardless of his performance.

David Ortiz.

Josh Beckett was beyond disappointing, but keep in mind that he's moving to the toughest division in baseball, and he's a hothead. He'll calm down, I think.

Matt Clement's injuries will end his career.

Manny Delcarmen is going to be good.

What the hell is the deal with Keith Foulke's rebound in September?

Hansen is young, and he's going to get shelled for awhile.

I love Jon Lester, but it appears that he has cancer. I don't know what the deal is with that. I hope he's okay.

Javier Lopez was supposed to strike out lefties. Lefties hit .250, righties hit .200.

Jonathan Papelbon should be rookie of the year.

Curt Schilling is too religious.

Further evidence that Rudy Seanez is the living dead:
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There is no way in hell that you're interested in what I think of Kyle Snyder.

Julian Tavarez can start and punch Carl Crawford, but he can't pitch relief.

Mike Timlin is old, but I'll bet he has a good year next year. I have a feeling.

Tim Wakefield can pitch until he's 50 if he wants to.

I used to hate David Wells, now I love him.

- - - -

As a total wrap, not much can be said for pitching and hitting, which were both terrible if you look at the numbers, but, on the bright and noble side, the Globe did have this to say:

The Red Sox committed only 66 errors on the season. No other team in baseball committed less than 80, while the Nationals committed almost twice as many (131). Sox shortstop Alex Gonzalez and third baseman Mike Lowell could sweep the Gold Gloves for the left side of the infield, while Kevin Youkilis and Mark Loretta both had solid defensive years.
That's something.

I've got to take a nap before class.


Sunday, October 01, 2006

Absurd.

I was sitting in my room today, watching the Jets/Colts game in my poncho, eating pepperoni pizza and drinking a two liter bottle Cherry Pepsi (straight from the bottle, mind you) and there's a knock at the door.

I get up, brush some peanut crumbs off of my chest (because I was eating peanuts as well), burp, and open the door. A hallway neighbor, Scott, is there, with his parents. I'm introduced to them, they seem really nice, and then Scott says, "So do you mind if my Dad cuts my hair in here?"

"Uh, no, not at all."

So Scott's dad cuts his hair, Scott's mom sweeps it up, they go out to dinner, and we all move on with our lives.

- - - -

That's all I have to say. Read this.