The American boys think it's cool, the girls think it's ridiculous and dangerous, and the British boy, Rory, is not one bit pleased.

P


eggy showed us videotapes of an ultra-sound that was performed upon her recently. We're still in the dark as to the gender of the future Charlottesville personality; Peggy and Zach don't want to find out quite yet.

"Guys, guys," as we all say for no real reason at Kappa Mutha Fucka. And I just did too. Next subject: how I spent my afternoon. I was on 29 North looking to make possible the complete implementation of a new and brutal system of security. In the United States, this is not the slightest bit difficult. The "system" became the subject of much discussion and the object of much care and affection throughout the evening. The American boys think it's cool, the girls think it's ridiculous and dangerous, and the British boy, Rory, is not one bit pleased. Those Brits sure are a civilized lot. I'm being obscure because it's fun and perhaps a bit necessary. Ah, what the fuck?

The girl Katherine from across the street came by to pick up little Nigel again this evening. She stayed much longer than usual, even expressing interest in perhaps going bowling with us (when we finally did go, though, she was no longer around). She was interested in seeing my paintings of course. It's always an unexpectedly pleasant surprise when a girl discovers that I'm a little more than just some layabout punk like my friends. I try to be humble and not show off, but the sheer volume of my creations does my bragging for me. Sometimes, as an act of discretion, I just want to put my paintings in an attic somewhere. They reveal too much, more than these musings in their own way.

Arrogantly, I suspect she likes me. Only to make things interesting, I like her too.

Katherine works at the Bayly Art Museum, by the way. And after all was said and done she hadn't actually said anything positive about my paintings. Arrogantly, I suspect she likes me. Only to make things interesting, I like her too. She's just some random girl after all. I wouldn't be writing this crap if I thought there was a chance she'd read it.

W


e drank beer and then bourbon, and then Matthew Hart and I went to get some more beer from the Jiffy Mart. I think I was overcharged for my past-expiration Dominion Spring Brew Specialty Lager, which was supposedly on deep discount. That was just one of what was to be many copious leaks from my wallet this evening.

Tyler, a friend of Matthew and Rory, had come over. Tyler lives with Rory at the new place on JPA and works, I believe, at the C&O. He's part of the WTJU College Radio/Tokyo Rose indy music scene. I first met him through Aaron the SHARP. Tyler is good friends with Aaron and puts up with all his personality quirks, but they're not very similar.

T


he plan was to go bowling, and not to take any skinheads with us. I'd made a "date" to go drink some beers with Dr. Steven Louis Weiner, but the bowling idea seemed so much more exciting that I no longer wanted to. Genius that I can occasionally be, I decided to include Dr. Louis on the bowling adventure. That way his feelings wouldn't be hurt and I'd get to knock over a few (emphasis on the word few) pins.

We set out in two cars: Deya's Mercury and Rory's monstrous pea-green 1972 Ford Two Door. I elected not to ride with Steve on the principal leg of our travels to the bowling alley. He reeks of cigarettes and urine and frequently says embarrassing things in that wretched voice which I must sample for you guys sometime before he dies.

I wasn't really there for the bowling though, I wanted to inhale the sociology of it all and drink a lot of cheap beer.

The bowling alley was on the north fringe of the strip-development corridor of 29 North. Typical of such places, it was overrun with a variety of people whom I would categorize as rednecks. They came in all ages, sizes, and genders, but their conformity to the redneck fashion was rigourous. The vast majority of the white men sported mullets, some with incredibly long shoulder dusters. There were also scads of teenage redneck or pseudo-redneck girls, mostly moving in small groups of three or four. I felt like I was back in high school again. In addition to the rednecks, there were several black couples bowling. But there were no students, no punk rockers, no hippies sneaking off to smoke a bowl in the parking lot. We were the only weirdoes there.

I'm a much better writer than I am a bowler. Consistently, I managed to roll gutterballs with every first bowl, then with every second my aim was usually much improved. But the improvement in aim was reset for every new turn I had as we cycled through the frames. I wasn't really there for the bowling though, I wanted to inhale the sociology of it all and drink a lot of cheap beer.

Not that the beer was particularly cheap. Seven dollars is a lot of money to pay for a pitcher of Icehouse. Dr. Steven Louis Weiner helped pay for one such pitcher, but then he mostly stuck to a variety of unhealthy fattening foods and cigarettes. Remember, he's got to smoke most of the time to use up four packs a day.

He looks horrible these days, though he appears to have lost some weight and his attitude has improved enormously. Who says money can't buy happiness?

Steve's mother died recently in a horrible auto accident, and he's come into a large amount of money. So he's been on a spending spree of late, buying an $80,000 house in Belmont, inheriting a computer, and getting internet access. He's sweiner@comet.net if you have anything you'd like to say. The party is on so to speak, but I doubt it will last long. I wonder which will run out first, the money or Steve Weiner's life. He looks horrible these days, though he appears to have lost some weight and his attitude has improved enormously. Who says money can't buy happiness?

It turns out that Steve is a pretty damn good bowler. He doesn't exactly look like an athlete, but the few times he bowled in the place of someone else, he almost always hit a strike.

W


e headed back to Rory's place and I played a little drunken piano. Then, back in my room at Kappa Mutha Fucka, Monster Boy and I smoked some pot and listened to Tool's Aenema. Under our various influences the music sounded especially good, and we discussed how wonderful Tool is. I said that I especially liked their "we don't give a fuck what you think" attitude.

Here I am with the talent, time and resources to create high quality web pages full of coherent prose and the occasional dazzling graphics on a daily basis.

We also talked about the little thugs of Charlottesville and how mystifying my web pages must be to them. Here I am with the talent, time and resources to create high quality web pages full of coherent prose and the occasional dazzling graphics on a daily basis. It must look like a small army is behind the effort. That they might think such a thing was apparently demonstrated earlier this week when Chaz and a group of his friends interrogated Monster Boy as to whether he played any role in the creation and maintenance of the musings. Monster Boy doesn't know any HTML yet, but he is considering starting up a free web site at Geocities, Tripod or Angelfire, perhaps to give reviews of the incredibly strange movies he watches and collects.

In other Monster Boy news, it seems he now has a 40 hour a week job. Based only on Shonan's recommendation, the university hospital has hired Monster Boy to do Shonan's old job of sterilizing medical equipment and cleaning up blood and gore. It's the perfect job for a weirdo goth boy. He'll be making $7.50 an hour and receiving full benefits.

Meanwhile Deya recently got a job working as a waitress at a new restaurant on Water Street near the Downtown Mall. The average wealth of our house is increasing by leaps and bounds. I fully expect to be spending less on beer in the future.

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