I


t's another drab, cold day in Charlottesville. I'm at Olssen Hall, having been here since 7:30am. The old adage "Early to bed, early to rise" is a little like saying "the sky is blue"; what else am I to do but get up when it's 7am and I can no longer sleep?

So what does a woman do as the inevitable happens and her skin sags, wrinkles spread like ancient roots across her face, and she develops the overall countenance of fried chicken?

That paragraph was such a chatty, journalesque bit of fluff that I'm embarrassed to read it. What can I do? I'm still not recovered from my recent ills, and everything seems unimpressive and unworthy of discussion. One thing that bears mentioning, though, is the concept of women and age. Everyone knows that everybody wants to look like they're in their late teens for the rest of their lives (sans zits of course). This is especially true of women, who find themselves being evaluated (in the subconscious of men at least) for their reproductive potential. So what does a woman do as the inevitable happens and her skin sags, wrinkles spread like ancient roots across her face, and she develops the overall countenance of fried chicken? If she has the money, sometimes she'll "invest" (ha ha!) in a facelift. But most of her solution will be in getting her hair restyled. She'll have it permed to make it look thicker, and she'll have it cut fairly short so as to avoid its appearing stringy. Then she'll hit it with some blue-coloured dye in hopes that it won't have the dreaded "yellows" (which is apparently quite different from "blond"). In the end, though, she'll look like every other little old lady. You know the sterotype. I saw one late this morning as I was eating potato wedges at the Amoco, and I wondered: why do these ladies do their hair like this? Then I realized...
Because Elizabeth Taylor did!

I suppose she was going to have to eventually anyway, at some point that golf ball sized brain tumour was going to have to come out.

I saw part of a documentary about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton on pirated cable last night. In the early part of their relationship, when she had long hair, she was looking pretty hot. I was wondering to myself, "at what point did Elizabeth Taylor start looking like an old bag?" Then, suddenly I knew. It coincided with when she cut and permed her hair. I suppose she was going to have to eventually anyway, at some point that golf ball sized brain tumour was going to have to come out.

But still: all you little old ladies out there looking to Elizabeth Taylor for stylistic guidance on how to age gracefully are looking in the wrong place. Cutting and perming your hair makes you look like a sterotypical little old lady of absolutely no sexual value.

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I


was a little ill all day. It wasn't a big deal; I was just weak and uninspired. I took several naps and attempted several more.

Out of the City of Brotherly Perverts came a call from Sara Poiron. She was just about to head off to another awful day of using ugly balding transvestites as ashtrays. Being a professional dominatrix is a miserable job even if the pay is pretty good. A recent idea I've been floating of going on a road trip with her and Jessika has made all her occupational misery seem a little more worthwhile. I'm going to start keeping a map of the places where the road trip might go, based on promised stop-over locations. Yes: the Musings of the Gus will eventually be going on the road, broadcasting semi-live therefrom.

T


he evening was spent with Nicholas the Very Affectionate But Sleepy Kitten and Deya. The latter split what remained of the Carlo Rossi with me as we watched cop shows and the Simpsons on cable. I made myself an enormous amount of pasta and followed it with a 40,000 heat-unit cayenne pepper capsule. With a full stomach, I noticed no effects from it.

I've decided that Deya is pretty much the only friend I see on a regular basis with whom I do not have some sort of dysfunctional relationship. It seems our days of dysfunction are finally over.

But like the Christian Heaven, it will be a boring place starved for innovation and full of shop-worn ideas.

There was a special about teen curfews on MTV that was fairly interesting. I hadn't really considered the issue very much until tonight. But now I'm wondering: what kind of nation are we that we feel compelled to tell our youth to "get lost" for vast tracts of their young lives? It's just another unnecessary humiliation, one that breeds resentment. This is on top of the fact that the old, the largest block of reliable voters, continue to rob the young - Social Security and Medicare come to mind.

A lot of people think death sucks, and a lot of people do what they can to defy it as long as possible. But imagine a world where everyone lived forever. The Strom Thurmonds and Joe McCarthies of the world would still be here, spouting irrelevant anachronistic philosphies. Einstein would be revered, but I'm sure he'd still have the quaint old notion that God doesn't throw dice, so what use would he be to post-Heisenberg physics? Without new blood, the world would have stagnated long ago. When medicine finally conquers the aging process, the listless period of Heaven on Earth can begin. But like the Christian Heaven, it will be a boring place starved for innovation and full of shop-worn ideas and outmoded tastes.

Seven things, old people:

1. Let the kids out of the house.
2. Don't make kids piss in cups.
3. Give kids your money (with appropriate strings attached).
4. Stop voting.
5. Realize that grandkids only kiss you for the gifts you bring.
6. Don't ask for expensive medicine to extend your lives four measly weeks.
7. Die.

She's got a little angel looking after her naïve ass.

Oh, and about the big stock market crash! The Grim Reaper seems to be on a perfect ten year cycle. Well I remember the '87 crash and how I felt about all the anarchists of Oberlin suddenly becoming concerned for the welfare of their rich parents. Not to be a hypocrite, I'll express no concern about my mother's financial well being. Besides, she's mostly invested in trains ("Why?" you ask, well, "I like trains!" is her shrewd market wisdom). And completely coincidentally, railroad stocks seem to be able to thrive in even the worst market turmoil. Regardless, my mother just happened to sell a bunch of stocks two weeks ago in anticipation of a large real estate purchase that never materialized. She's got a little angel looking after her naïve ass.

one year ago

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