But if I ever start being suspicious of the youth, blaming them for my troubles and dismissing their ideas and inventions while stealing their wealth, then someone please kill me.

M


y first paragraph in yesterday's entry had been so ridiculously smarmy that I feared all day that I'd lapsed into a serious phase of literary weakness. I tried combatting that feeling the balance of the entry with as much bluntness and outrage as I could muster in this forum. If you're old and you were offended, take heart: if I rein in my risks adequately, some day I too shall be old. Hopefully then I will be as open-minded and receptive to new ideas as I am now, able to turn on a dime from one project to the next, perhaps with an even greater ability to finish the things I start. I also look forward to the wisdom I will have accumulated. But if I ever start being suspicious of the youth, blaming them for my troubles and dismissing their ideas and inventions while stealing their wealth, then someone please kill me.

---

The lyrics, however, were written by Elly Jordaan of Dreamdweller.com fame.

I


n the evening, I kept to myself up in my room, playing with my four track, something I haven't done since the Frat Boy Machine. The sad fact is that I haven't done anything of any import with it since February. But today I made amends. I recorded a little song with six tracks. Three were guitar, one was me beating on a little African talking drum that Nathan VanHooser brought me back from Peace Corps in the Gambia, another was me banging two pieces of metal together, and the last track was me singing. The lyrics, however, were written by Elly Jordaan of Dreamdweller.com fame. Here's how they went:




Whatever the case,
I won't let this issue
drop for a bit.
I'm livid that
she could treat
someone she doesn't know
in this manner.
There is no place on the Web
for this kind of snotty elitism
and rudeness.
As we move towards
a 'global village'
through advancements in technology,
it behooves us all
to practice tolerance,
acceptance and kindness.
Of course, the flip side
of that statement is that
I am not practicing
what I am preaching;
I'm aware of this.
I did not, however,
start this little fracas.
Ms. Huntzinger chose to do
that when she wrote
that revolting email
to my friend.


That's an excerpt from Elly's classic April 16th, 1997 journal entry. Later at Comet, I made a RealAudio version of my little song. So play it and sing along! I also made a higher fidelity version of a few seconds from the middle of the song, available in .wav format.

After all, I do know at least one person whose morals do not inhibit him from stealing from his very best friends.

After I'd made the tape, I looked for a tape player so I could capture it on the Macs at Comet, but it seems someone has stolen my little tape player from the Kappa Mutha Fucka living room. There have been a several things stolen from there, and I have my suspicions about who the responsible party is. After all, I do know at least one person whose morals do not inhibit him from stealing from his very best friends (something I am no longer to him). I find solace in the fact that such people cannot go on with their abuses forever; Charlottesville's single worst instance of this phenomenon, in his typical dumb-headed manner, seems to be amplifying the scorn of those around him to a crisis. More on that in a bit.

C


J, Matthew Hart's bisexual redneck buddy from Waynesboro, was in town again today for his monthly medical procedures. He came by Kappa Mutha Fucka while I was recording on the four track, and settled in on the couches downstairs. He put out a bowl with an assortment of three different kinds of prescription drugs for us to share with him, along with a variety of condoms (none of us ever say anything about the condoms, but they've proved useful in several situations that haven't included CJ). I ate one of the little blue morphine pills and then went to bed, and had an incredibly vivid dream:

I amputated both of my hands at the wrists and then sewed them back on.

There was some sort of problem with my arms, so I did a little do-it-yourself medicine on them. I amputated both of my hands at the wrists and then sewed them back on. I have no idea why this was necessary, or how I could do this without the use of my fingers, but somehow I did. Anyway, I did a very good job of reattaching them, considering the primitive equipment available to me.

The only problem was that my dad had a job to do and he needed the help of me and my brother. There was a big tractor trailer rig that needed to be scraped down and repainted. So there I was, climbing around way up on a truck with my freshly-attached hands, scraping paint, and working my ass off. Near the reattachment lines on my arm, my flesh gradually became swollen, waterlogged and sore. I feared the hands would snap off under the stress. But I couldn't complain; I didn't want my dad to bitch me out about the stupidity of performing surgery on myself. I awoke to find that my arms had gone numb from the position I'd assumed while sleeping.

I wonder if Leah still appreciates the non-stop romantic manly excitement he has brought to her life.

J


ust as I was leaving for work, Matthew Hart told me that Rory had done it yet again. He'd been involved in yet another hit and run, this time with Leah's Ford Escort (which her parents gave her in the aftermath of an attempted rape/mugging on Main Street). Apparently this time Rory had intended to flee the state for good after he'd successfully evaded the police, but something brought him back home to the Haunted House. I have no idea what's going to happen, but Matthew is enraged by this egregious instance of the uses he's made of Leah's suckerdom.

Of course, anyone with experience is aware that Rory's days of fucking-up know no end. Just when you think he's staked his claim on the lowest depths of human depravity, he finds a shovel and digs down deeper. I wonder if Leah still appreciates the non-stop romantic manly excitement he has brought to her life.

one year ago

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