Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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decay & ruin
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got that wrong
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Like asecular.com
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Like my brownhouse:
   playing hooky
Saturday, November 22 1997
    This little episode didn't do much to dispel my lingering unease that the Internet really is comprised largely of people lacking fully-developed social coping mechanisms.
    T

    he alarm went off this morning as usual for a Saturday and I headed off to work. But guess what? The schedule had changed. What I'd thought was a temporary schedule anomaly was in fact permanent, and I'd have come in to work at 5pm. So I hung out for a few hours anyway, taking advantage of the greater bandwidth of the T1 to do the web surfing I would have been doing at home anyway (that is, if I wasn't still sleeping, which I probably would have been).

    The online journal scene occasionally makes for some fascinating reading, especially when certain of its members are extremely pissed-off. I really wanted to go look at the site that Maggy referred to (it supposedly still had "((water))" left intact between the title tags). So I asked around on diary-l (the online journal mailing list), but mostly all I got in response was incoherent insults from a guy named Zach. In among his insults, he denied the existence of web cliques and went on to tell me that he didn't think I was a very nice person and that he wouldn't want to "hang with" me. Of course, at that very instant my little heart broke right in two. Later that day Zach withdrew from diary-l entirely. He had been, up until that instant, by far the single most frequent poster to that list. This little episode didn't do much to dispel my lingering unease that the Internet is comprised largely of people lacking fully-developed social coping mechanisms.

    Back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I installed some whiz-bang software and continued as I had at Comet. Destiny seemed to hurl me relentlessly towards an unremarkable evening.

    editor's note: at this point my tale diverges from 22.html.

    Peggy and Zach never visit anymore since they only ever came to Kappa Mutha Fucka to visit Matthew Hart.
    T

    here was a knocking at my door. I opened it up, and guess who was standing there in a long day-glo orange wig? Jessika. What a surprise. She'd ridden down from Malvernia with Peggy's mother and father on their expedition to "see the baby." That would be Peggy's baby of course, the unblinkingly erstwhile Baboose.

    The others, Peggy, Zach, the Baboose, and Peggy's parents, were all downstairs. Peggy and Zach never visit anymore since they only ever came to Kappa Mutha Fucka to visit Matthew Hart, and he's never around anymore. The only reason they came this time was because Jessika had wanted to come.

    The others went off to go shopping and Jessika stayed to hang out with me. We discussed such things as Sara Poiron's new annoying clingy dependency on a vegan boyfriend named Seph, about Matthew Hart's pathetic recent decline, about Johnny Boom Boom's latest go of detox, and about the upcoming roadtrip.

    The pizza had looked much better in the teevee ads.
    Advertising has been working miracles on me, so today I finally got around to ordering one of those Pizza Hut "The Edge" pizzas, the kind that's cut up into little squares, where the toppings go right to the edge. I was kind of disappointed though. The crust was flat and crackerlike, and despite the fact that I'd ordered "the works," I wasn't impressed with the topping diversity or density. The pizza had looked much better in the teevee ads. Had they known I was going to write a review in these musings, they probably would have put forth a little more effort.

    Jessika was all excited, hoping we were going to have a tough guy incident, and she'd get to inflict some humiliating mayhem, but whoever it was never materialized.
    Next on the agenda: more beer. First, of course, I had to wait for Jessika to change from one little black dress into another. As we walked down JPA, we heard someone shout "You're gonna get your ass beat, son." Jessika was all excited, hoping we were going to have a tough guy incident, and she'd get to inflict some humiliating mayhem, but whoever it was never materialized. It's possible the shout wasn't even addressed to me.

    Since Jessika was in town, and since I'd gone to work once already today, I called in sick. This was the first time I ever did such a thing. I felt pretty guilty about it too, but I think I was justified. I figured I'd have to write a fake musings entry too, but then I realized that would be just another amusing creative writing opportunity.

    It was kind of humiliating, so I went in the house, resigned to finish my beer alone without even turning on the lights.
    Peggy, Zach, and all the myriad others returned from shopping. Now the plan was to go visit Dr. Steven Louis Weiner over at his new house in Belmont. We tried to all fit in Peggy and Zach's car, until Peggy's mother (who rarely has anything interesting to say) said "this is ridiculous!" It was kind of humiliating, so I went in the house, resigned to finish my beer alone without even turning on the lights. But then Jessika came back and suggested she and I go in the Dodge Dart. That made sense, so that's what we did.

    S

    teve Weiner's new house was in surprisingly good shape. The floor boards looked new, as did the paint job. The house is one of the new things Steve has purchased on the heels of the death of his mother. He said she was hit by an eighteen wheeler, but I don't know how true that is.

    Though it's doubtful Steve has given up his time-honoured habit of pissing his pants, it seems he's quit cigarettes for good.
    I was most impressed by the cleanliness of the house, most particularly its odour: there was none discernable. Steve's last place reeked of a combination of urine and cigarettes. Though it's doubtful Steve has given up his time-honoured habit of pissing his pants, it seems he's quit cigarettes for good. He used to smoke four packs a day. On the down side, it seems Steve's belly keeps growing outward. Given the fact that everything else about Steve is so slender, he looks like he's infected with a pregnancy.

    I had my new camera with me, but when I went to load a new roll of film, the damn thing rewound it immediately, irretrievably. Damn that Snooky's!

    We were soon joined by Ana, Raphæl and their little son Nemo. Raphæl is a big eater and he spent considerable time in Steve's kitchen making himself and others various meat-containing food. Though Jewish, Steve keeps a good supply of bacon in his refrigerator.

    When he was cooking in the kitchen, Raphæl was out in front playing around with an old beat up BMW he'd just bought for ten dollars. The car was once owned by Farrell, who'd naturally cut off its roof.

    ...how smart he is, how much he loves his grandmother, how much his grandmother loves him and the likelihood of an imminent bodily function.
    The conversation at Steve's house was very dull for the most part. Peggy's mom babbled on and on in baby talk to the Baboose and when she wasn't talking to the Baboose, she was talking about him: how smart he is, how much he loves his grandmother, how much his grandmother loves him and the likelihood of an imminent bodily function. Peggy's mom is evidently addicted to grandmotherhood. It's a sickness, and as such it disgusts me. I've heard that a sure fire way to sell things to old people is to lead them to believe that their purchase will result in a better relationship with the grandchildren.

    I found myself wanting to fall asleep, but that was pretty much impossible. Steve was the only one who was managing to hold my interest. There were, of course, his usual embarrassing monologues revolving around his unflagging desire to sleep with Jessika, if only to show the other guys in town it could be done. (To this Jessika pointed out, "they wouldn't believe you anyway.") But occasionally there was more. Now and again there were flashes of true wit. For example, Steve was talking about how he'd bought a nice mountain bike recently, but that it had been stolen from within his old house on King Street. King Street is in a sort of low-income black neighborhood. After Steve had described how the lock had been broken on his house, he added "Afro-americans..." (at this point I just assumed he was going to make a negative racial sterotype) "...are known for their high S.A.T. scores."

    I'm a little worried about the Baboose. He has an awfully vacant look to his eyes, and he holds them open a long time between blinking. It's not a look of infantile curiosity that I see in his eyes. I see someone completely overwhelmed by the world. Once when I was on tussin, I found him too disturbing to look at.

    The roadtrip means an awful lot to Jessika; it makes the present situation (having a miserable job and living with her parents) worth enduring.
    The babies shat, Raphæl fixed himself another sandwich, Jessika snapped some more pictures (at least her camera was working) and the conversation dragged along. The others eventually headed off to Carter's Mountain to watch movies, while Jessika and I went back to Kappa Mutha Fucka. We left Steve sad and lonely on his front porch.

    A

    s we expected, Deya was sitting around doing nothing much back at Kappa Mutha Fucka. I suppose she was resigned to spend a boring Saturday night by herself. Our arrival didn't really change the situation that much either. We ended up going to my room to go online and look at and update the map of the coming road trip. The roadtrip means an awful lot to Jessika; it makes the present situation (having a miserable job and living with her parents) worth enduring. We also discussed some other online matters with which Jessika and I are acquainted. Regarding the horizontal scrolling in Today's Stream, Jessika said, "that's annoying!" Of course, Deya didn't know anything about any of this stuff.

    I was thinking that if anything could make Jessika look conclusively ridiculous, it would be that fringed vest.
    As she'd promised to do by email, Jessika began to tidy up my very messy room. It all began with concern about my sheets, which I haven't changed since early October (that's actually not too long ago by my standards). In pursuit of a replacement sheet, Jessika started digging through my closet, which is basically a massive pile of assorted clothes. I only have a vague notion of what exactly can be found in there; many of the clothes therein don't even belong to me. Other clothes are the sorts of things I collect but would never wear. When Jessika stumbled across my fringed patent leather vest (a gift of my redneck friend Josh Furr), I suggested she put it on. I was thinking that if anything could make Jessika look conclusively ridiculous, it would be that fringed vest. I guess I was wrong. She's got an unusual gift with clothes. In concert with her silky black robe and a scarf, she actually looked kind of wholesome. She could have walked into the Tokyo Rose like that and no one would have mistaken her for a skanky honky tonk girl. If I wore that same vest, I might look like I was headed out for a night at the tractor pull.

    It was a little embarrassing having Jessika and Deya cluck clucking over my dirty sheets, organizational dysfunction and overall lack of hygeine. But they (or, more especially, Jessika) were cleaning my room, and it takes a pretty good friend to do that.

    Suddenly Bn arrived. Remember Bn? He used to work at Comet, but got a better job at Infini.net down in Norfolk, and so moved out of town. He was back in Charlottesville tonight and figured he'd come over. He told us he's become miserable in Norfolk, forced by circumstances to live with his old girlfriend Helen even though they've "really broken up" this time. "I've started going to bars," he confessed.

    I'd had enough of unremarkable babies and cooing grandparents for a whole week.
    He and I talked some about computers here and there in the midst of the other ongoing conversations, since that's a common interest. But we both have lots of other things to talk about, so boring the girls was unnecessary. Besides, Jessika may have known Bn for longer than she has known me.

    My room was getting hot and stuffy, and I was getting irritated with the fussiness with which Jessika was going through my laundry, so I relocated downstairs. Bn did a few wheelies in Matthew Hart's wheelchair and then headed back to Norfolk.

    D

    eya, Jessika and I headed up Carter's Mountain to visit "the families." It wasn't my idea of a good time (believe me, I'd had enough of unremarkable babies and cooing grandparents for a whole week), but we had to drop Jessika off with Peggy's folks since they'd be returning to Malvern in the morning.

    I wanna be the goth in your football team.
    It always sucks to drop Jessika off into her indefinite absences, especially this time; she'd only been here a few hours. But the process of separation was even more cruel than that. You see, the grandparents gradually evicted us from inside Peggy and Zach's place in order to get some sleep. So we young'n's lingered in the cold darkness outside, talking about nothing in particular, not really wanting to part, but forced to anyway by the circumstances. Zachary was being especially goofy, coming up with nonsense words and asking me for their definitions, which I supplied in an equally imaginative manner. One such word I defined as "a stop sign accidentally manufactured with six sides instead of the usual eight."

    On the drive home, I was listening to a silly little rap song on Deya's car radio. In the song, "I wanna be pencil on your paper" was used as a metaphor for "I wanna put my penis in your vagina." I picked up that ball and ran with it, coming up with lots of other metaphors for the same thing. The more ridiculous, the better:

    • I wanna be the goth in your football team. This was a particularly good one, since goths would be rare in football teams. It would certainly make for more of a monogamous metaphor than:
    • I wanna be the crayon in your crayola box.

one year ago

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