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August 20 1998, Thursday


offee, lots of coffee, led to an energetic moment this morning, feeling my rage swelling with every sanctimonious idiotic little Al Schroeder comment in diary-l. I've been holding my true feelings back for a long time, but something about that guy really sets me off. He's the literary equivalent of fingernails scatching on a blackboard. Evidently I'm not the only one he affects in this way. He's written of people erupting into flames around him on a now-defunct Christian list server, and supposedly someone once used Photoshop to graft his smug little face onto the end of a penis. Fellow members of my online journal clique are often groaning about this or that thing Al has written. We gnash our teeth especially loudly whenever he takes an obviously ironic statement overly-literally. As one of my more intimate online journal friends puts it, "I really do think that [Al Schroeder] is affected by a recessive autistic gene, most often expressed as extreme literal-mindedness."

I've about had my fill of Al Schroeder implying that I'm the author of Cut While Shaving, using ridiculously flimsy evidence to back his claims, and now dweebishly writing that he's not going to make any more implications of this kind because Cut While Shaving dude is a criminal for "hacking Webring." It reminds me of Dan Reitman at Harkness house meetings throwing up his hand and claiming "Em, actually, we can't do that according to the bylaws" whenever someone would float an outrageously funny and obviously unworkable idea. So today, in a fit of rage, I told all of diary-l that I hope Al's autistic kids awaken from their autism and shit on his face while he lies sleeping. When one of the the several "take care"-signing list members decreed my post to be the lowest diary-l had ever sunk, I showed her (in true John Waters fashion) that I was just getting started. I said that I hoped Al's kids then performed anal sex on Al's wife using ground-up housepets for a sexual lubricant. There is no limit to what I'll write when I'm this kind of mad. If Al's kids suffered from leprosy, I'd be writing about wanting their missing fingers to materialize in Al's morning coffee.

Kim takes a picture in the mirror with my digital camera. Note the massage anatomy posters and the paper design upon which her tattoo was based.


att Rogers came over at 2pm to help Kim and I partake of some of the insurance-funded hedonistic living being had over at their suite in Webers Inn. The twist today was that Mother and Chuck were gone for the day and we had their suite to ourselves, complete with insurance-funded room service.

When we made it to Webers, Kim ordered a cartful of things: oysters on the halfshell, shrimp on ice, some kind of chicken, two kinds of fish, a couple Bloody Marys and a bottle of red wine. She had second thoughts about the sheer quantity of food, but we managed to eat absolutely all of it.

We hung out for awhile down in the pool and communal hot tub while a couple kids played with some kind of velcro throwing toy. The mother of the little girl gave her a Cut While Shavingesque swat after an altercation, surprising given the probable socio-economic class of the actors.

Upstairs in the suite, we all smoked pot and climbed into the smaller private hot tub. Kim threw in some kind of bubble bath substance, so soon we were completely covered with foam. I felt as if we were all floating around in a cloud, like we'd died and gone to a child's vision of heaven. Kim turned on the shower, a gentle rain began to fall and soon all the foam was gone. As stoned as I was, these different phases in the hot tub felt like legs of a journey.

We kept talking about how much we felt like rock stars. Who were we to be living it up so? "Ohhhhh, I feel heavy metal!" I wailed on occasion.

Kim ordered some screwdrivers, which we drank while watching a classic episode of the Simpsons. At around 8pm, Matt Rogers had to go to a dance class (yes, Matt Rogers dances), so Kim straightened up the chaos (such as it was) and we cleared out. She left a note to her mother saying there had been four of us (including Spunky Lisa) so our visit wouldn't be misconstrued as perverted. (Though nothing perverted happened at all.) Also, the amount of food and booze would seem less decadent for four people.


n the evening, Kim and I went down to Café Zola for coffee. She was meeting up with some of her holistic massage-therapy-type friends: Raven, whom I've met before, and Mary, a youthful little married woman. Unfortunately, in amongst the gossip and massage-talk (and demonstrations), Kim gave out the URL to this website. They're nice women, though. Being possibly hated by holistic types isn't quite the same as being hated by skinheads.

Meanwhile, I had my laptop set up and I was able to do a surprisingly large amount of writing.

one year ago
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