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April 3, 1997, Thursday

Now I rhyme: When I was a seed and I sang like the birds I knew all the songs but did not know the words.

The music you are listening to right now (that is, once it loads) is... whatever the hell you put on your stereo. Isn't that nice of me? You might be a fancier of Bob Dylan. Dylan and my musings go well together, I imagine. lay lady lay, lay across puppy-grass beds. You might like, I don't know, Offspring. Sure sounds good, huh? I have no self esteem! Ah---wayyayayayayay.. How about Beethoven's Moonlight Sonota? doo dee doo, doo dee doo, doo dee doo... Crank it up and feel that pain! Skinchamber anyone? You get the idea.

Older entries more closely approximate literary Platonic ideals, whereas fresh entries suffer from acne, ignorance, and other maladies of youth.
Yesterday's entry was nothing more than a methodical download of my day. It was uninspired and shallow. I hate entries like that. The day had been so interesting, but I'd been in an inappropriate mental state to do it justice. Furthermore, that entry was full of grammatical errors and botched sentences, some of which I have subsequently fixed. I don't believe in editing actual content retrospectively, but I will fix embarrassing mistakes such as grammar and spelling. And I will often add passages and details to further flesh out the tales I tell. I get to do these things because I'm the Gus and you're the rabble. Consequently, older entries more closely approximate literary Platonic ideals, whereas fresh entries suffer from acne, ignorance, and other maladies of youth.

Today was a beautiful Spring day. It must be April or something. I drove back to Staunton in the Dodge Dart after first robbing $50 from the bank. I'm giddy and drifting into melodrama. I get to do that too.

I sleep like a baby in the bunk of my Shaque, even in the middle of the day. There are no thumping screaming Elizabeths outside my door and there are no goths wanting me to buy some bourbon and come out to play.

I fixed all the little troubles with the homeplace. A 40 year old lightswitch needed replacing, and my Dad's greasy grey hair needed cutting. He's not as disgusting as Walter Miller's grandpa, but I'm always fascinated in a voyeuristic way by the way a 73 year old head is different from and similar to my own.

this entry is brought to you by
"better than Campbells and much less expensive" -the Gus
I also built a crude little battery system to power my Shaque's Mac's realtime clock when the power is off. The old lithium battery expired some weeks ago after at least 6 years of operation. The new system uses conventional AA batteries.

My mother made a delicious pasta/bean/hamburger chili dish for dinner, and I ate so much I became bloated. Before leaving to return to Charlottesville, I told my folks the scary truth about Mad Cow Disease. They listen to and read a lot of news from several different sources, but both had just assumed Mad Cow Disease wasn't an American problem or even much of a British one. That's exactly the reaction that the government and the beef industry had worked so hard to cultivate. If my parents aren't concerned, then who is? They were clearly shaken by my explanation of prion diseases, though. I sincerely doubt they will be buying any more commerical beef in the future.

As my Dart went by Hot Tomatoes on University Avenue on the Corner, I saw Elizabeth seated with Cecelia the Brazilian Girl and Karen the German Girl. The latter two came running and jumped in while some punks (dismissed again by Cecelia as "posers") in front of Plan 9 hollered insults. One called me a "fag." Cecelia suggested that he suck my dick then. He claimed he already had.

I still felt bloated from my homecooked meal, and so lay around in my bed with the two girls while they tried to coax some life into me. They wanted to go to the Horrid Crash Pad, see Raphæl play at the Orbit Billiard Parlour and do other little fun things. I thought instead that I should take my pre-work nap. They were very disappointed, but what could they do?

As I napped they came and knocked on my door several times. Am I really so necessary that they should humiliate themselves so? Who am I to them? I really don't know.

I've been reading increasingly from the online journals of OpenPages. I have to say though that most of the stuff in the journals is fairly inaccessible. The context of the troubles of most journal-keepers is rarely fleshed out sufficiently for me to care one way or the other about the futures of the people involved. Rarely does anything very interesting ever happen. I am too close to these musings to know if the same troubles plague my writing, but I suspect they do. I know that some of my readers actually know me personally. But that leaves perhaps 50 others whom I do not know.

I think the better journals address issues that are common to the human condition without repeatedly raking over the same tired subject matter. The concept of "life is a curse" and "I love those whom I know" are subjects that weary me. I'd rather hear people addressing the slightly more subtle issues that crop up in their lives. Here are some examples:

These are just some examples. I try to address issues such as these whenever the opportunity presents itself.

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