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From our insular isle of the Manhattoes... [11-Aug-03 ! 12.21pm]
Saddam Hussein: Call me Ismael. []
counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

Happy birthday... [18-Jul-03 ! 01.21pm]
[ mood | bersmidged ] me. [sniffle]

counting the days [3]::try not to be part of that

Resident Yo La Tengo [08-Jul-03 ! 12.37pm]
Does anyone else know what Yo La Tengo song I themed my page for?
counting the days [3]::try not to be part of that

ARE YOU ASKING FOR A CHALLENGE??!!!?!? [07-Jul-03 ! 11.58am]
Dearest Jana,

Your inbred attempt at a cruel bon mot betrays your true heart of darkness; but your brutal style rather resembles that of one who speaks English as a third language, my Joevial Comrad.

Yea, let us parry about the checkered board with King Homer and Queen Marge and Naive Bart. I shall lull you into subservient, rub-my-doggy-belly capitulation by reciting treatise upon treatise on inductive method and the Bridges of Königsberg County.

Yeah, let my call undulate over smoove Wave Hill and 'neath the yellow-
   trained Sunset Park.
I'm freshah than U.S. Acres and fierceah than the razor-
   beaked fnark.
My babe's a chess instructah; she say I ain't undercuted.
(Yeah) My primacy in ajedrez is heavyweight — and still undisputed.
And I'll consistently steal your turn in Super Mario Brothers 3. That goes for all of you, my friends.
counting the days [10]::try not to be part of that

my latest pickup lines [10-Jun-03 ! 05.57pm]
the good prof noam says i'm the green joe stalin
cuz i always dishin poli-trac[t/k]s from my duma up in ha'lem
wastin the czar's solidiahs with mah mouse clicks
now my pointer's gone to ashcroft, cuz i like tan chicks

i collect-called you cuz i think you're fly
i'm the pale assassin who is not afraid to --WHAA?-- cry
now don't be misrepresentin' me cuz i voted nadah
yo come on baby don't be a single-payah hatah

boom, PTCH; boom uh boom, PTCH
[my e-mail address]
counting the days [8]::try not to be part of that

[28-May-03 ! 11.41am]
[ mood | recursive ]

procedure self_cnsc
   c = "Thinking of "
   while brain.ssri == 0
      c = c + "thinking of "
   end while
   c = c + "it."
end self_cnsc

try not to be part of that

Executive branch as corporation. [21-May-03 ! 07.42pm]
fascismman: is "terror" that much more euphonic than "terrorism"? if the white house publicists start calling it "barley biscuits", will the media follow suit?
limepi: I love how Bush doesn't believe in evolution or abortion, but genetically modified foods are just dandy with him.
fascismman: no response from the yale web site! they got the goddamn server cluster!
fascismman: oh, now it's loading.
limepi: heh, I wonder why Ari and Christy are leaving....
fascismman: i see the executive branch as a corporation, its unspoken mission to enrich its board members and investors. in justifying or rationalizing the company's immoral actions, coroporate publicists write press releases in the first person plural, as if to extend the corp's bizarre legal status as a rights-bearing individual into the philosophic realm: as if the corporation were of one mind, as if it could produce earnest opinion or experience emotions (think of "deeply regret", "respect", and "value" as a verb).
limepi: thank you mr. chomsky
limepi: and now for the weather
limepi: seriously, I don't get why they always say that the veracity of bin laden's tapes is questionable
fascismman: white house corp. PR can be more effective than the typical corp. PR because it can ascribe its manufactured thoughts and feelings to an individual: president bush.
limepi: like, who would be faking them, other than the CIA...
fascismman: his inconsistent stances wouldn't be surprising given his intellectual bankcruptcy and the universal political tendency to lie. i suspect bush doesn't really have political opinions, though. he's a corporate PR machine mouthpiece. if that's true, no reason to analyze his statements any further.
fascismman: the DoD, or maybe some other Qaeda.
fascismman: Bob Qaeda.
counting the days [1]::try not to be part of that

Terrorism in my home city? [21-May-03 ! 06.02pm]
[ mood | restless ]

There has been an explosion in New Haven, at the Yale law school. Details are sketchy so far. Wow.

try not to be part of that

The year I saw my first nude filmstrip. [20-May-03 ! 08.55pm]
I had my first persistent mental block in second grade. Back then we had a cache of handouts and workbook pages to complete at our desks every morning. I was a bright kid, a fine student, generally first or second or third in my class of 20 to finish. It was some months into the school year when I faltered. I failed to complete my work every day, or almost every day, for a week or two. One day at recess Mrs. Popovich told me she noticed I wasn't finishing up lately. I remember that I noticed it too. It frustrated me.

At that age I couldn't know why it was happening. I did not realize, for starters, that I was having trouble concentrating. When in my mid teens I tried to psychoanalyze that seven year-old self, I remembered (perhaps accurately) my mother and my eleven year-old sister were fighting a lot at that time. I knew that witnessing it could have been damaging.
try not to be part of that

Theme Of Jeopardy Plus a Minor First [20-May-03 ! 08.25pm]
My discrete math course is in jeopardy. The instructor failed to show for the first two classes, the equivalent of a week's lecture hours. The search is on for a new teacher. Out of the five students registered, two declared today that they would migrate to linear or calculus. So even if a new teacher can be found soon, a newly reduced enrollment number may trigger the course's cancellation. Since no other interesting course in my ken meets during that time, I would get a refund and six weeks away from college.

Jana has just taught me chess using Simpsons pieces. Next I want to learn billiards and relearn poker.
try not to be part of that

Long-term memory burn in Osh-Koshes [16-May-03 ! 04.02pm]
My earliest memory is the image of my mom, dad, and sister going down the stairs as I stand in my crib. Then it skips a year or two.

Presently I was three years old and my mom was thirty-nine, and it had been that way my whole life. I knew that most days I was in the family room in a yellow plastic chair that said Little Tinker. My elderly babysister Peggy sat in the corner recliner. I understood that my parents were at work and my sister Miriam was at Doolittle School. I imagined her school was a capacious room with a gymnasium-height vaulted ceiling. The great schoolroom windows refracted sunlight just like the family room window did, spotlighting the neverending stream of flying dust in the dark. The bespectacled teacher woman spoke from a platform, facing hundreds of seats, most of them empty. Sitting through hours of soap operas at home, I liked to listen when a plane passed over. Sometimes I imagined the places they were flying in from. Luscious fields in Ireland; the idea of Hartford felt as exotic as that, exotic as Doolittle School. I was never allowed to leave my Little Tinker.

I was frightened of Peggy. I remember her locking me out in the cold garage one morning, stripped to my underwear on the cold concrete. It took me weeks or months to get brave enough to tell my mom about it. Mom said, but I also told her that Peggy locked me in my bedroom closet, remember? I didn't remember the closet and I didn't remember telling her about one.

One day when my sister came home from school it was decreed that our model train set was missing a miniature piece and that I had lost it. It was definitely in the red toy box or maybe it wasn't and I had to look through it. The toy box was a tall wooden wagon big enough for me to sleep in, stuffed with games and dolls past the brim. It was too big for me to reach even close to the bottom. I didn't know what I had done but there was no point protesting with these two girls. I would become well acquainted with this feeling: haplessness and dull outrage, borne of being misunderstood and unbelieved.


Later in my childhood, my parents would tell me about the books they used to read to me and the funny protolingual names I had for things. Alongside those cute items, my mom recounted the two Peggy horror stories I told her. (I can feel that feeling again.) I could still swear I never mentioned a closet (My closet didn't even have a lock!) and my memory of the garage was as fresh as it ever was. I just couldn't remember anymore whether it was a dream or an experience.
counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

[16-May-03 ! 01.36pm]

  • Working at JTS full-time as of today. Learning ProTools on OS X.
  • Taking two classes at NYU this summer, discrete math (starting Monday) and classical mythology (starting in July). Registrar quipped they go together like oil and vinegar. Did he mean oil and water?
  • Physical therapy twice a week. Diagnosis: Everything.

That much has me booked solid 7:30 AM to 7:30 PM Monday through Thursday, 8 to 4 on Sunday. Summer classes assign 1.5 to 2 hours of homework per night. I hope to get it all done during work hours.

  • Yoga. People keep on recommending it for my Everything issues. 63% chance I'll take an introductory class; 3 to 1 says I don't follow up.
  • Bass lessons. People keep asking me if I can fill in on bass. But fretwork may aggravate Everything. Alt: Trombone lessons. 45%.
  • Running. Over the last month I've gone out one to four times a week and done a mile or so My first goal is a six minute mile. 37% chance I'll get that far.
  • I am not slow. I am a short-twitch guy. I steal third base at will.
  • Much more LJ updating to come. Promise. 39% chance my fingers are crossed.
try not to be part of that

Damage is done [08-May-03 ! 04.26pm]
This Tuesday night, nekton ran into a high school crush. Meanwhile, my roommate Eddie met an old crush of his whom he hadn't seen in about two years. On the same night still, I saw a girl who once besmote me, whom I had not spoken to for two years and one week.

I boarded a half-empty uptown train car at 18th Street. It was a little after 1 AM. I sat down, and I saw her. She was on a facing bench farther up the car. I pulled out my novel and, pretending to concentrate on it, even making notes in it, I sneaked glances at her. Twice when I looked up, she was already looking at me. Both times, my heart shot adrenaline through my arms and thighs in the moment before she looked away.

True to form, Emily was wearing hoop earrings that are too big for her face and make her look like a slightly older Hispanic woman. Still, I might have gone to bed unsure the woman was she if I hadn't seen the way she filled out her grey polyester slacks as she got up and walked to the train door. Ass and thighs like ripe fruit, stretching the fabric taut. The pantlegs hung short and loose from above the knee. She would tuck her old teddy bear under the sheets when I knew her, but man, she was so grown up.

She used the nearest door that was in my direction, also in the direction of her station exit. She did not look at me from the platform. So, I didn't know what she thought about me, but I knew she was still in New York. And she didn't have a ring on either hand.

At home, six stations past hers, I caught myself in a fantasy conversation with Emily. Shit. I wished I had mustered the courage to talk to her on the train. I resolved to call her on Wednesday, but she's not in the phone book. She doesn't even register on Google.
counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

[08-May-03 ! 01.31pm]

counting the days [1]::try not to be part of that

[02-May-03 ! 02.31pm]
[ mood | unsatisfied ]

You can't always get what you want you can't always get what you want you can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes you might find you just might find you get what you need.

counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

Poetry contest results by week's end... [29-Apr-03 ! 07.21pm]
[ mood | busy ]

Can you guess what the mint-tint plywood of the MYSTERY OBELISK belies?

Hint: Declaring myself the greatest literary light of the West 150's actually turned out to be a misinformed choice.

Hint: You will not see it if you refuse to see it, whitey.

Unveil.Collapse )

counting the days [4]::try not to be part of that

Haiku: Cheese for free thinkers. [28-Apr-03 ! 06.45pm]
The Laughing Cow pack
in new, defiant bright type:
"A French Favorite".

The poetry of D.H. Rumsfeld.
try not to be part of that

Finnish poem prize [28-Apr-03 ! 06.18pm]
[ mood | blocked ]

Abstract: Finish this poem for me.
Grand Prize: An invaluable Gotham souvenir.

Pick up at the pi.

Monk's Morning Pages

Cries, 'twas restless!
(Be pour coffee he rote.)
Burt, then bike Ross.
Lie bell by the supple
    sack of rice. Across

The worden table,
That unfinished carpenter's π

counting the days [9]::try not to be part of that

Hear the song I composed at age 16. (Passing-over backup disks at parents' house.) [18-Apr-03 ! 08.22pm]
I used to write music using a program called Noteworthy Composer. I couldn't play an instrument, but I was a voracious listener and very interested in using the ideas I had. Over the course of a few days, logging 3 or 5 or 14 hours work, I would fill in staves note by note until something I could live with was produced. Though I tapped some theory and ear training, it was tonal trial and error at play in great part.

This one was a junior year English class project, a creative work in response to a novel. I chose Rabbit, Run by John Updike. I tried to write three sections that in some way corresponded to the three parts of the book.

run.mid (Rabbit's in Stereo)
counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

All hail Thane of EFNet #l33t [24-Mar-03 ! 06.23pm]
The FTC imposed 11-digit dialing on New York City this year: Manhattanites must dial 1+212 to reach their next-door neighbor. Mmkay, so I called my doctor's office today, with 11-digits, & the lady says I must hang up and dial with one-plus-area-code. I did. I did it again. Same message. Third attempt, I dialed only seven digits, and the call went through. The same happened to me last month.

The artistic community has responded to this Hellerian paradox with a modern Shakespeare interpretation called Makb3th. An implementation of open-source playrighting, it's a compl33t interactive multimedia (truly both) performance with its ASCII video and text messaging. The producers beseech audience members to keep their cell phones on during the performance. (All via /.)

Too bad they're in the UK. Go play their platform game, Duncan Kong.
counting the days [2]::try not to be part of that

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