this is taking much longer than i thought it would?

Because I was interested to see how this would turn out, here's my version of the MEME Mary posted:

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Bring Back Pluto (Aesop Rock)
That actually kind of makes sense? Aesop Rock features J.Darnielle on one of his songs, so you can't go wrong.

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Blue Veins (The Raconteurs)
Wealthy?

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Falling Out of Love at This Volume (Bright Eyes)
Well that's fantastic.

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Island Garden Song (The Mountain Goats)
I guess it's that "My garden will grow so high (2x) that I will be completely hidden." Or "I will jettison all dead weight."

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
If You Stay Sober (Shearwater)

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Bright Future in Sales (Fountains of Wayne)
A bright future in sales isn't quite correct. I do like the idea of getting my shit together though.

WHAT IS 2+2?
Hotel Song (Regina Spektor)
Hello, obligatory question with no chance of a correct or semi-correct response.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Take a Dance With Me (St. Thomas)
Man, I'm kind of a dick in this song. The thrust of it is fairly accurate, I suppose?

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE
Dance Music (The Mountain Goats)
Apparently, "You're the last best thing I've got going" and "I don't want to die alone."

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Infiltration (Sam Phillips)
That sounds about right.

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Shadow Song (The Mountain Goats)
This song always reminds me of the very end of No Country for Old Men.

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Hook, Line, and Sinker (Jon Brion)
I am beginning to suspect the results of this may be random.

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Boy's Best Friend (The White Stripes)
I'm not sure how to feel about this:
I just don't fit in this place
Their thoughts cast me out of here
Their home has run out of space
My mind's already out of here
Won't you come along, dear?
Won't you come along?

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Winter (Josh Radin)
Fitting. Although I was really hoping it'd be Elijah by The Mountain Goats.

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Bridge Over Troubled Water (Simon and Garfunkel)
Lovely.

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Propinquity (The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band)
Hmm.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Song of Our So-Called Friend (Okkervil River)
High five, random shuffle button.

WHAT’S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Better (Regina Spektor)
Actually, I wouldn't mind things getting better.

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Lightness (Peter and the Wolf)
Sad song.

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
San Bernadino (The Mountain Goats)
Man, there's a lot of MG on here.

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Rhythm and Soul (Spoon)
Although I enjoy Spoon, they generally don't make me laugh...

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Rowboat (Beck Cover) (Johnny Cash)
That sounds about right.

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Old Dream (Darren Hanlon)
This song seems to say yes, but I'll be sad and poor.

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Family Happiness (The Mountain Goats)
It doesn't scare me, but it would've been pretty sweet if this one came up one song ago. It would also point to a strange marriage, however. I do love the song.

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Peace (Weezer)
Answer hazy, try again.

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Bit Rate Variations in B-Flat (Beck)
Why yes, I would rock out more.

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Revolution in the Heart (Ed Harcourt)
That doesn't link to the song. It links to a video I found when I was trying to find the correct one. It is a video of pure madness. And I'm sure that's really him in that suit, check out this one for his history of strange strange endeavors.


I've got to tell you I had to try really hard not to cheat. I did cheat on the last one because a live recording of This Year came up and I had already used the album version. So, yeah.

in which i say nothing (but freak out a little)

It is becoming increasingly apparent I will probably most possibly, that is to say "definitely," be graduating from COLLEGE in like, six months. WTF. I have, however, seen the other side in my friend Ben. He graduated last year and recently got a job directly because of his degree (Computer Science, I believe) and has not yet burst into flames. This is comforting to me. He's engaged to his girlfriend, which I just remembered. This is less comforting because it reveals one thing about this period in our lives which I had been hoping to ignore for a while longer: Real Life presses upon us.

I knew Ben back when he was singing about pigeons on a bagel being spread like butter during a down time while we were filming P.I. (an entirely different story altogether). Granted, I also knew David Forsythe back when he was just a little kid with a broken arm and he's now been married for a year or so, I guess I shouldn't be so surprised re: Real Life. These things happen. It's just weird.

Also: I'm going to need to get some health insurance when I graduate. Gah.

WTF, man. WTF.

barack obama left a comment on your blog

This evening I made my last donation to Barack Obama's campaign. Afterward, I was directed to write something down if I wanted to and send it along (to the campaign, I guess?) and I felt moved to do so. I was planning on writing something about this on my birthday, but I think this captures how I feel pretty well. And it's already written. So that's another plus.

I first donated to the campaign back early in the primary season, when Hillary was, I felt, being excessively negative to Barack. It wasn't much, but as he won more and more states I felt proud that I had donated and had in a small way helped his cause.
I donated a few more times during the primaries. And as he moved into the general election season I donated a little more. It became important to me to continue my support because I really believe America will be a better country with Barack as president. I've never understood why people dismissed him as little more than empty words and high retoric. If you would listen, I thought, you would understand that he's not just talking about hope and change, but he's talking about how to bring about change and how to renew hope.
Back when I made my first donation I was afraid he wouldn't win the nomination. But I saw that he and the people around him had thought through most of the paths their campaign could take and had chosen the right one. When Barack won the nomination, I was happy but still afraid that there would be something to take away his chances at becoming president.
Now I'm allowing myself to hope. The election is four days away and in two days I will be 22. Four years ago I voted for George Bush. It was a mistake I will not make again.

I don't know if you will read this, Mr. Obama, but if you do I want to say thank you. Thank you for being the canidate I hoped you would remain to be all those months ago. It means a lot to me, personally.

Thank you.

a quick one

Hey all, it's been a while. I'm fine, thanks for asking. And yourself? Oh, I've been keeping busy, mostly with school, but I can't complain too much about that.

I've been thinking about Things. (NOTE: This will not be a long heavy post, don't fret.) It hardly seems fair that college is almost over, especially since it seemed to take much less time to get through than high school did. I'll just end that train of thought right there. That train of thought can be difficult to articulate and I am too tired to do so now.

How about a joke? I don't remember where I read it...

What's the difference between Barack Obama and John McCain?

One of them offers you change, the other offers you a dish of hard candy.

Oh, ZING! Tip your waiters and waitresses.

thought(s) on the VP debate

gaioshfisahgh everytime I hear the word "maverick" I feel like someone is poking me in the back of the head asdsadasgahgops.

While she's rebuking Biden on his Afghanistan response, she looks like she wants to throttle him. He pissed. her. off. (Or maybe she's really flustered?)

This might be a bit too mean, but I thought it when Palin said John McCain "knows how to win a war": Didn't we "lose" the Vietnam War?

If either of you watched the debate, can you tell me how many questions she's answered? I haven't caught one yet.

AGH, stop being so damn folksy. It's like nails on a chalkboard!

"John McCain tapped me and said 'That's where I wantcha.' "

Were you aware Alaska produces a lot of energy?

Maverick twice in the same answer! When Biden was answering the same question he started to tear up. Palin said some talking points. Biden is NOT happy about that.

UPDATE: David Letterman has some special messages from Governor Palin which, I think, should not be missed. They clear several things up:

from work!

Ah, yes, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting down the stairs and from guys whose pants have not fit them for a long time. Now I remember why I liked it better why we had shows outside of the store.

Walt Fact #917

I really really liked Casino Royale. I thought, and it's been a while since I've seen the others, that it was the best Bond movie. Not only that, it was an awesome movie by itself. With that out of the way, I think Quantum of Solace (and yes, I like the title, I think it makes sense) looks even better:



When they both fall through the glass ceiling at 1:25? AWESOME.

no one knows where we go

I keep meaning to go to bed sooner, and failing. I think "oh, I'll just check this one other site to see if there's anything new" and then it's an hour later and I'm still tired. And the worst part is that none of it ever really changes, the new Macbooks are still unannounced (and probably won't be until early October) and Sarah Palin is still, well, not helping McCain (which is fine, but I'm still worried he can somehow turn it all around).

Fuck.

Fuck.

I'm going to bed.

"i am a werewolf."

For any and all interested parties, the Reading Rainbow version of When the Wolfsbane Blooms can be found here:
http://www.mediafire.com/?dgmymy0gmcm
The picture is pretty decent for what it is at the standard resolution and is passable (barely) at full-screen resolution, but it was the best option I was given that didn't make the file size prohibitively huge.

a horribly hilarious story FROM THE PAST

If you meander over to hobbescomics.net you'll see that I've finally updated the site with some new (really old) content! I wrote the story 13 years ago, probably fairly close to the day, and it really really shows it. Or at least I hope it does.
There are a great number of misspelled words. And a great number of silly illustrations. If you look at page five, you'll notice that someone is SO frightened their hair, teeth, eyes, and glasses are popping off of their round, smooth skull.
The copy I have is, as far as I know, the only copy left and even that is not the original. Anyway, check it out, it's pretty entertaining.

making that subtitle inaccurate since 1986

Hey. So. It's been a while. I've been working on a story that I'm probably going to be putting in the save for later folder because it's just not happening. I have ideas for it and I have some sentences I really like, but overall it's been fighting me every step of the way. I recently started reading a book called U & I: A True Story about a writer who is obessed with John Updike. I can relate. The man is nothing if not prolific and has remained well-respected into his later years (which other author can you say that of?) and listening to him speak, the sentences seem to pour out of him perfectly formed. But moving on.
The story started out being about a man and wife with their infant daughter waiting for a bus in a small town and became about the same couple with the same child seeing a man get hit by a car (tapped, would be a better word) and get in a fight with the driver and started being more about the man meeting someone he hasn't talked to in a long time and being confused and unsettled by the ways they no longer match his memory. And then he goes back outside to the bus stop where his wife and daughter are waiting.
I'm not sure why I'm so facinated by the motif (if motif is the word I want) of that sort of family. I have neither wife nor daughter. But they keep popping up. I just need to move on and come back to the story later.

I'll have something more interesting to say later, I'm sure.

EDIT: I love Dylan Moran. He's hilarious! This is from his show "Black Books"

i mean, like, seriously. ew.

Dear Lady Who Immediately And I Am Not Exaggerating People Started Trimming Your Fingernails After You Asked If We Had A Book,

That is NOT socially acceptable. At all. And when you didn't even sweep your clippings away, I was flabbergasted that people even did that. Please never come in the store again.

Thanks!

Walt

write or else

I spent about two hours over Friday and Saturday in the dark. This was something I had planned. During those two hours, give or take, I listened to a man speaking with a gentle accent, a sort of rolling of the vowels, a rising and falling of stresses, as he occasionally shifted from foot to foot, tapping the toe of his shoe to keep time. He smiled and laughed and peered into the darkness over his small glasses to either proclaim or jest. It was, by turns, hilarious and thoughtful.

I'm talking, of course, about Thomas Lynch.

He came to my school on Friday and gave a reading in the recital hall, where he was either accompanied or followed by a piece of music various students had composed for his poetry or essays. The music was often very good, and fantastic at least once and he seemed pleased by it. He read selections from "Sweeney," "All Hallows Eve," the first essay in Undertaking, and one poem whose name I cannot recall.
I went downtown to see him Saturday, my father, a copy of Still Life in Mitford, and my uncle's copy of Bodies in Motion and at Rest in tow. The talk was supposedly called "Undertaking Nonfiction" and was to be about the craft of nonfiction writing. But he didn't touch on that and instead read "Grimalkin" and told its story (a more compact version of which is in the essay of the same name). He read from some articles he had written, some poems I have not read, some essays I have, and talked the whole time about the whys of the writing. When asked, at the end, by some small child "Have you ever cremated an animal?" he answered, laughing, "Not on purpose."
So I went into the lobby, waving to people I know, and had the books signed. He asked me what I did and if I was in the MFA program at Eastern and then if I was going to stay here or go somewhere else for it. In my uncle Tom's book he wrote: "Uncle Tom, Namesake, etc. Best, TL." And in mine he wrote: "Walt- Write or else! TL, Spokane 2008."

Awesome.

you guys.

You guys I love the Mountain Goats so much.



I know that in California, the waves break on the beach
I know that the foam on the breaking waves is as white as household bleach
But can you see that particular white right now?
That's the color of the young star, coming on down
I've got joy joy joy in my soul tonight
I've got joy joy joy in my arms all right
Although you treat me badly
I will love you madly
You really got a hold on me
You really got a hold on me

i am incredibly bored so you get to read whatever i can think of until i absolutely have to do something:

To say that it had been raining long would be laughable. In fact, Rabbit tried it out, and found that he smiled in spite of the sagging in his earthen roof and the fact his whole front was soaked from dumping several pots' worth of water out the door of his burrow. He eyed the roof, tendrils of grass root were reaching stupidly for his rug. If it was still raining tomorrow he'd go out into the forest and fetch some lengths of wood to brace it.
He got word the day before that Rat's home, or at least the part of which he was most proud, had crumbled into the river and that Rat had moved in with Badger and was drinking what little of his store he had been able to save. Rabbit was thinking about all this and wondering if he should perhaps go into the forest tonight when someone knocked on his door. He stepped around the series of pots and opened it to find Hedgehog standing there, her shawl making thin tents on her trembling quills, her eyes wide.
"Rabbit," she said, ignoring his offer to come in, "quick, you've got to help; it's Rat."

And now someone's come in with books, so I'm off...

top five most ridiculous romance titles in a single order

1. Paging Dr. Daddy
2. The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal
3. The Italian Billionaire's Pregnant Bride
4. Expecting His Love-Child
5. One-Night Love Child

I've figured out one of the formulas for a romance novel:

The [Profession/Ethnicity/Ethnicity & Profession]'s [Amount of Wealth/Prengnan/t/cy] [Bride/Lover/Secret Lover]

I'm learning so much!

in which i pause for a moment and abandon being self-reflective for at least a paragraph

I've been on Spring Break for the past two weeks, so I've had quite a bit of time on my hands (when my brother wasn't here). I've been spending some chunks of that time playing through Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory, which, although it didn't get great reviews, is a lot of fun. There is one particular thing that bugs me though:
If I can pick off a covert agent from tens of yards away even if he's run deep into the shadows, you'd think I'd turn if someone opened a door two feet away instead of continuing to walk from one desk to another/smoking an entire cigarette. After that, sneaking up behind someone and then quietly dragging him to the shadows is considerably less satisfying.

That's pretty much it. Stuff about school comes tomorrow, after, you know, I'm done with it.

Also, Tom Nook is a cheap bastard.

walt: a retrospective

Since I've been going through my closet, I've come across many trinkets from my youth. The most entertaining to find again are, of course, the books we put together in class with our various crafts. When I read this I thought it was too funny not to share:

Dear Santa,
I wish my friends were aliends. I wish Grant and I could be robbots. I wish I was stronger than Hulk Hogan. I wish I was strong enough to jump over the Empire State Building.
Your Pal, Walt

Apparently we were supposed to write down our Christmas wishes? The large card its written in is shaped like a reindeer's head...

i think i know who some makeup artist admires

I just wonder if he's noticed.



On the left, Eddie Izzard; on the right, Susan Sarandon in Enchanted.

it will be too late by the time we learn what these cryptic symbols mean

I saw No Country for Old Men today. If you want a movie that watches like a book, this is your movie. I liked it, and the more I think about it the more I like it. The Coens do some brilliant stuff that I realized only after I had thought about it for a little while. It's not nearly as action-y as the trailer would suggest, and it's not as bloody as some reviews I've read paint it (though there is blood), but there are some good action scenes. So yeah. I'd definitely see it again.

In other news, I'm once again redoing the website to make it less of a pain to update (which, in theory, means I'll be updating it more often. Because I haven't. Because it's a pain. Stupid host not supporting php.) and that should be done in the next couple of days.

Finally, did I ever send any of you a snippet of a story wherein I describe the change from summer to autumn in about half of a page? I thought I typed and saved it, but I can't find it and I can't seem to rewrite it. This would be at least a month ago. I know I'm reaching.

Christmas break! Woo!

oh god i should be writing my poetry paper what am i doing

A bit of backstory:
There is a customer who comes in every day with thirty books. He buys books nearly every day, too, though he never goes over his credit amount. He is very old and has some sort of skin condition. He is the reason Kathy bought hand sanitizer. He is also completely oblivious to any cold he might have, allowing his nose to drip more or less as it desires.

We join our tale, already in progress...

There I stood, horrified, my stomach churning before it really needed to, yet transfixed by the drop wavering precariously from the end of his nose. I wanted to hold a Kleenex out, but didn't want him to move too quickly and risk the drop flinging off toward me. It was like a sports movie or an action movie where something is on the very edge of something, ready to fall one way or the other, and everyone is staring at it, willing it to fall the way they want it to.
I just wanted a tissue or his hand or a sleeve to intervene. I wanted a miracle.

But it fell, slowly, dream-like, to the counter. I drew upon every reserve of self-control so as not to visibly shudder. After he had left --still oblivious!-- I wiped it up with a big paper towel and slathered my hands with santizer before running (like Steve Carrell in Little Miss Sunshine) to the bathroom to wash with the hottest water in the whole world.

ewewewewewewewew

warning! poetry! warning!

I'm pretty much on my way to poetry class right now, but I feel like the ol' blog needs an updating. So here are a couple of poems (without the changes suggested by the teacher and class) that were particularly well recieved.

Where the Creek is Shallow

Earlier he had listened to the gravel under his feet;
His dog’s excited, haggard breathing,
Her ears alert, listening too, for everything:
That far away creek,
And the slowly shedding leaves,
Some branch breaking and tumbling down its tree.
And they began, then, toward the copse, that old gate,
That old stump, a fallen tree--
Its roots torn from the ground and spread
Like fingers are spread from a desperate hand.

Later he will go back home, out of breath and shaking,
With his dog, oblivious, proudly trotting behind him,
And turn the sink on hot, plunge his hands in
And use the soap, wring his hands, and stand there washing.
When he was a boy he went fishing in that creek
And noticed each season’s changing leaves.
But in his kitchen he will notice the flesh of his palm,
The hair on his knuckles, all his fingers there and
Working. A blessed thing that Sunday morning.

Still. His dog laps at his hand and he lets her,
Her nose wet, her haunches wet from the spray against the stone.
Yet he would not stop staring at the body drifting in its tomb;
How, like reeds, the slow flow of the stream undulated its fingers;
And there, like a boat finding shore, some fallen autumn leaf
Did strike against and sail along the useless line of its wasted cheek.
A thought crosses uninvited then, against his numbing feeling:
That if the water were just deeper, the body would float away,
And he could look, away, at it-- not dead, but sleeping.
Not floating, but swimming.

My Own Rolled to my Elbows

I have three hours before
She gets back from class
And I’ve spent most of it
Finding this spot.
My bike is leaning against
The tree I climbed earlier;
My hat is just above my eyes;
I know there are clouds
And sea spray beyond that hill.
I know how her sweater will feel
And I wait.

It is not too much longer
Nor too cold.
The taste of apple is sticky
On my lips.

And that's it. I also wrote a villanelle, but I'm not sure how I feel about it, no matter what my classmates said.

this was probably a bad idea

I had quite an adventure last night, let me tell you. I had just finished closing and, being hungry, began to drive to Safeway. Before I go any further, I've got to give you the lay of the land: The bookstore is in the middlish of a largish shopping center, with a main road as the crow flies from the front door and a considerably less main road to your right as you face the main road. So I don't have to deal with traffic, I usually take the less main road when I go to Safeway, and just drive in the back way. The less main road stops at the end of the back of the shopping center, where it meets what is, for all intents and purposes, a residential street. There are no stop signs on any of the three meeting points, so you've got to be careful when you turn.
Now, I pulled up to the residental street and saw there was a car coming to my left (the way to turn to get to Safeway), and I waited. Once that one passed, I saw another one coming to my right, but since it was at least a blockish ways away, I turned left.
No sooner had I turned left that the car zoomed up and almost hit my tail. The driver, irate for whatever reason, turned his brights way way up and continued to tailgate me like a bastard. I considered stopping, but decided that damage to my car was not something I wanted. Besides, I thought, it's only a short distance to Safeway, he'll continue on this road to the main road up ahead.
No such luck. When I turned onto the back drive to the parking lot, he followed. I hoped he was just going to the store, but to be on the safe side I pulled all the way to the third row of parking spots instead of the first. I parked. He was still in front of the store, his lights on, his car on. I was not about to walk in front of him. Then he swerved into a parking spot, got out, and slammed his door closed.
I am not familar enough with Mr Gandolfini's performances in The Sopranos to make any real comparisons, but if he grew a goatee, he'd probably look something like the man who was glaring menacingly in my direction.
I got out of the car with my bag (containing the chicken I had intended to return [2 weeks past expiration though I bought it that morning]), reasoning that I could run inside or at least escape into the night with my car unharmed.
"Learn to drive, asshole," he shouted helpfully.
"The speed limit's 25 on that street," I pointed out at equal volume.
"Hey, fuck you," he replied.
"Oh, fuck off," I countered, not to be outdone.
We exchanged more pleasantries in this vein, and I began to make my way to the store. I watched him carefully because although he hadn't come any closer, he was clearly still very very angry with me. He was also following me into the store, but through the doors closest to him. Once inside, I walked quickly to the customer service desk with my chicken and got a refund.
When I went back outside later, visions of my wrecked car floating before me, everything was fine. None of my tires were slashed, nothing was in the exhaust pipe, no windows were broken. He was gone.

my submission is in the running!

Please vote for it! (A high score would be nice too)

EDIT: As you may notice from that handy little banner, the voting period is over. Now we wait and see if it gets chosen to be printed. I didn't get quite as many votes as I was hoping to (slightly more than 2,000) but I think it was still a good show. I'm not sure when they'll say what the score was, probably in the next couple of days, but I'll let you know when they do.

Thanks for voting!

haHA

For any of you who remember my brush with fame, the movie I was in came out on DVD recently. I didn't watch it, but my dad did and he assures me it was horrible. I watched only the scene I was an extra in. My dad was not in it, though he was at the filming.
HOWEVER. 28 minutes in, I AM. I apologize for the poor picture quality.
Click the picture for a larger view!





I'm apparently doing my best old man impression. But I'm in it! Now I can say that I shared the screen with Jessica Biel on my resume.

Awesome.

input, please

I was wondering what you thought about the (probably?) final design for my Threadless shirt. Specifically, the astrerisks. Were they better how they were before? Etc.
Also, my S button seem to not work conitantly. Thi i going to be a problem when I write my paper later today.

EDIT: My original version is not a high enough resolution. Frick. I'm going to have to redo it before I submit it. Frick.

You know when you need a new laptop battery...

...when the maximum charge is 20 minutes.

My Ten Songs of the 90s (why yes, I'm a Creative Writing major, why do you ask?)

(Note: This list was complied mostly after making a smart playlist of 90s songs, but includes others that I only remember hearing in that decade.)

In response to Claire's blog (and comment on my own), here is my list of 90s songs in no particular order. The titles are linked to youtube videos (if I could find them). Please remember that I spent just about half of the 90s in Saudi and so have very little idea of what the Youth Culture was at that time...

1. Undone (the Sweater Song) Weezer: This is the first song of theirs I heard about. I didn't actually hear it for a while, but I remember riding in the back of a van and my friends laughing and singing it.
2. Hello Operator The White Stripes: The video is from an old old performance, some of the lyrics are different. Elephant was the first actual CD I bought, and I liked it, but when I bought De Stijl and heard this song (the second on the album) I was sold on the whole red, white, and black thing.
3. Real World Matchbox Twenty: You'll recall that earlier I confessed to liking Matchbox Twenty, well, this was probably my favorite song from Yourself or Someone like You. Yes, I still sing it whenever it comes up on shuffle and on the radio. Damn straight.
4. Chop Suey System of a Down: So it turned out I lied. This was probably the first album I bought, I had forgotten. And I know that it came out in 2001, but I did hear their first album until after this one and I didn't like it as much. Erik Davis introduced me to System, and I still like this song, so here it is.
5. Stranger than Fiction Bad Religion: In middle school and high school I hung out with Chris Suter, who loved Bad Religion almost as much as he loved mountain biking. He burned me a bunch of CDs, of which this was one of them. The CD that this is on was my only Bad Religion CD, and I listend to it over and over in my ancient "portable" CD player that I had to keep perfectly level to prevent it from skipping.
6. Californication Red Hot Chili Peppers: I'm cheating again. This came out in 2000, but the Red Hot Chili Peppers have been around forever. I first remember seeing/hearing this song while staying at my uncle's house after we had watched monster movies. It was very late and I was very tired and this song came on MTV and I thought it was the greatest thing ever.
7. Amish Paradise Weird Al: I first became aware of Weird Al when this album came out. I still think he's awesome and the concert was one of the best I've been to, although I don't own any of his CDs.
8. One Jump Ahead Aladdin: This was my favorite song from the movie soundtrack. I'm pretty sure I used to act it out. This is not as embarrassing as...
9. Bad Michael Jackson: I know, it came out in 1987. But the number of days I danced around to this album in my youth should make up for it. And since I have a song from two years out of the 90s, with this song three years before them, it comes out as a decent average. I like to think that my dancing to MJ amounts to more than a full-body dry heave.
10. Frank Sinatra Cake: This is not the first Cake song I ever heard. That would be The Distance, which I heard in the back seat of Erik Davis' girlfriend's car, driving to some restraunt with all the windows down, Erik shouting about how awesome it is and for her to turn it up. I really like this song though.

Well, that's the list. I hope you approve enough not to ostracise me forever and remember that if you make some 90s cultural refrence and I stare back blankly it's probably because I missed huge gobs of the 90s. And because I haven't seen that episode of I Love the 90s yet.

EDIT: While looking at Claire's list, I was reminded of one thing that I would be remiss to leave off of mine: This awesomeness.

on headphones and...no, i don't have any american lit writing to do, why do you ask?

I learned a lesson this morning, after I put my headphones on and heard music exclusively through the left earbud: Don't skimp on headphones.
This all came up about three weeks ago when my ancient iPod headphones finally gave up the ghost. The wire was fraying down at the jack and the sound wasn't all that it used to be and it only played music out of one earbud, but I thought that they could stick it out a little longer until the day I put them on and no music came out. So that afternoon I went to the local RadioShack (it being right next to work and all) to buy new ones.
I bought the cheapest ones. Because, I figured, what was the difference, really? When I used them the next day, I found out. They wouldn't stay in my ears! In order to use them I had to stay perfectly still and if I wanted to listen to music while walking I had to keep my head perfectly level and stationary, like some strange combination of Eliza Doolittle and Dr. Alan Grant. If I wasn't completely still and did something stupid like turning my head or yawning pop! out would come one (or both!) of the earbuds. Oh, I wanted to tear the headphones apart. I came this close to throwing them into the wild blue yonder on several occasions.

And now they're dead. I'm not going to wait until they stop working completely to get new headphones. I'm going to bury these bastards and buy new ones. And you had better believe that they'll be expensive.

no, i'm not putting off reading. why would you even suggest that?

I have a confession to make. Now, before I tell you, I'd like to say that I hope it doesn't make you think any less of me or any differently. That's right: I like Matchbox 20.

It probably first started in freshman year when Marc gave me a bunch of CDs he had found and didn't like. Most of them were of bands I didn't like or were so messed up they wouldn't work. A lot of them didn't have cases. However, there was one I was intrigued by; its case was cracked, but still good and the CD wasn't too scratched. That CD was Yourself Or Someone Like You.

I'm admitting this because the other day I was in my car, listening to the radio and this song started. I thought "This sounds familar" and "I really like this." It wasn't until the song was almost over that I realized it was the new Matchbox 20 song. Maybe I felt that I had to get this secret off my chest because I hope that, in some deep and shameful place, I would totally like to go to a Matchbox 20 concert. It's possible, they have a new CD out. But if I do, I hope that I won't have to make up a different concert to say I went to. I hope that you can understand.

I hope we can still be friends.

If I can quote Matchbox 20, "I know it's wrong, that's the problem." Thank you.

stuff!

Hey, some stuff's been going on!

Check out my Threadless submission HERE!

Check out my thoughts on the completely awesome Weird Al concert tomorrow! Probably!

My website has been updated, kind of! The news page!

paging teddy kaufman, please dial zero

I'm in Las Vegas. It's a different part of the airport than I usually fly into; which is nice, for a change. I've had dinner, after waiting FOREVER for the girl at the front of the line to (a) decide what she wanted and (b) find her ID, and am now sitting behind a column at the crossroads of Burger King, Sbarro, and Carvel. I can see my gate from where I'm sitting (I scored a totally excellent "A" grouping for my boarding pass), my plane is supposed to be on time, and I'm listening to "Store" by the Mountain Goats (thanks, Mary!).

It's actually going pretty well.

In another two hours, give or take, I'll be in Tucson. We will have to hang out, though I doubt we will tonight. But at some point before I go back up north. I don't have much to say right now, and it probably woudn't be a bad idea to go to my gate, at which the plane boards in about ...20 minutes. People seem to line up quickly.

See you soon!

WARNING: this blog may contain spoilers. but i have not written it yet, so i don't really know.

I know it's been quite a while since I updated the ol' blog, so I've thought of some stuff to write, handily, in a little list format:

-The New Harry Potter Book: As good as you hoped it would be? Or not?
-Oh Man, Do I Hate Perspective: Why Brian the Zombie will now be set in a windowless room.
-Flying to Tucson: I am looking forward to it.

HERE BE SPOILERS (MAYBE? I'LL TRY NOT TO BE TOO SPECIFIC, BUT I PROBABLY WOULD BE IN THE COMMENTS SECTION IF SOMEONE WAS TO COMMENT)!
I liked the last book, overall. I did have a few qualms with it, mostly with the Hallows part (which really should have been longer or at least more developed) and with how many characters she killed/the need(?) and time given to their deaths. When Sirius died in Order of the Phoenixxx, it made me really sad to say the least; because here was a character that I had grown to know and when he died I felt the emotional impact on Harry. I cried when Dumbledore died, too. But for the most part, when she was busy killing the characters that she did, I didn't feel too bad about it. (Except when a certain tennis-ball-eyed fellow was killed in one of the most cliched ways in all of books and movies. [See: The Matrix Revolutions or any other thing where you think someone is okay until PSYCH! they're dead.]) I completely missed that a certain Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and his wife died until Harry's March to Certain Doom. I thought that killing Hedwig was just so she didn't have to worry about what to do with her. And the ears-free-of-being-shorn-twin was more or less pointless. But the lamest thing was that we barely have time to register what has happened to these characters before she's on to her next thing. I'd bet that her publisher was breathing down her neck to finish it and these problems would have been addressed had she been given time to go back and fix them. I was disappointed by Snape's death, how anti-climatic.
I know it sounds like I didn't really like it, but I did. It was as good a way to end the series as I could have asked for and she answered all of the questions I had.
END SPOILERS!

I hate perspective, and that's pretty much all I have to say about it. You'll see what I mean tomorrow.

I'm also looking forward to flying down to Tucson, and I hope I won't be too delayed. We'll have to hang out at some point, it's been forever.

i hope your workplace still has air conditioning because mine sure doesn't

Hey, guess what. That's right. My website is more or less up and running. I've still got a couple of links to fix, but it's usable.

Let me know what you think or if you have any problems.

this is the sort of day i had at work:

A little set up: this guy came in to give us ten thousand books. I told him, calmly, mind you, that we don't do that and if he wants to do that, there's a Goodwill drop off behind the grocery store.

Angry Customer: I thought I'd do you a favor!

Me: Well, you can do Goodwill a favor.

Wow, yeah, so that was fun.

and the (hopefully) conclusion

Apparently Kevin, Troy, and Travis Wilkinson are involved in a legal dispute with Ford Motor Co. and so Ford garnished what they probably thought was the above's bank account on Friday. But, as the previous post made clear was that it was my bank account.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that I have my money back and the attorneys in the Wilkinson v. Ford case are being contacted.

the good news first and then horrible awful very bad news: or stupid ford motor company, those bastards

Good news first. I bought my tickets for this summer, and will be down in Tucson from August 8th to the 21st. I suggest we hang out at least a couple of times? Also, I did indeed start a Marion/John Wayne in an airport story. It'll probably be not gloomy at the very least, but I'm shooting for funny and happy. So there's that.

Bad news now. After I bought my tickets yesterday, I checked my bank accounts to see what sort of damage they dealt and to my great surprise I saw: Nothing. Well, not exactly "nothing." I did see "-235.60" which is, I suppose, an absence of nothing. But nothing in my savings and the above in my checking.
Which was, clearly, EXACTLY what I was expecting.
Two calls to Wells Fargo later and I've got to contact the Wells Fargo Legal Department on Monday. Because all of my money has gone to Ford Motor Company. Ford. Motor. Company. I don't know how. I certainly don't know why. Maybe they're vindictive that I drive a Camry? Apparently, and I'm not positive that this is what the lady said due to my head spinning, Ford has a hold on my money in a litigation or something or other (which is why I have to contact the legal department).

So I had a very fun day yesterday and I have to open the store in 20 minutes, so today is really looking up.

I'll keep you posted.

i am most certainly NOT blogging from work, thank you very much

This is why the Mountain Goats are awesome times ten.

finally flickr fupdate!

My flickr is finally updated. I'd have put the pictures in a set, but flickr won't let me. I let my pro account die, so if you can't see the pictures because my bandwith is used, I'll renew it.

It's how I roll. Enjoy!

what strange machines we are/ what strange machines we are (3x)

Since it's been so long since I've updated the ol' blog, I figured that, hey, since I have a couple of hours to kill, I'd let all two (or three?) of you know why:
1. Pretty much nothing has been going on. Things at the store are actually not too bad, financially; we were very worried how the construction out front would impact business and it doesn't seem to have too much. We've even had some really good days, and if those keep up enough to get someone to buy the store in the next six months, I'll still have a job.
2. I've been working on this year's Elsie Hooper Art Contest. It's been fairly slow going because I'm working on a larger scale than I usually do (instead of the middle of an 8" x 10", I'm using the whole of an 11" x 16"), and it's turning out fairly well, but I still need to find a larger scanner than I usually use when I'm done. Also, the other entrants won't be able to possibly cheat this year because he has actual judges for the finalists. Which is good.
3. I'm working on another story off and on. This one takes place in an airport, which, aside from being something I've wanted to do for a while*, has a very low likelihood that there will be interspecies erotica.

That's more or less it. Flickr update tonight or tomorrow morning, depending on my speed in getting the yet-to-be-taken pictures uploaded.

I'm pretty sure that I called some previous entry the Most Boring Entry Ever. I'm also pretty sure this one beats it.

*Many of my story ideas have involved airports in one way or another. The Spokane Story originally began in an airport, years after the events of the story's current incarnation, and the characters were drastically different. But I've always (usually) enjoyed airports and would like to write several that take place in them. Just because.

in which i use numbers

So. Classes. Ahem.

1. Eastern Religion and Philosophy is taught by a guy who looks a tad like Steven Spielberg, but with considerably more bow-ties-per-shirt. He seems to know what he's talking about, although it's a bit difficult to tell over the roar of his mumbling. However, I do have that class with Biz and Alexis and so the chances of making through the class are high.
2. Brit Lit 2: The Sequel is taught by a woman whose previous job was being Velma Dinkley and teaching kindergarten. I loathe the class with almost, but not quite, every fiber of my being. Alexis is in that class with me, too, but because it's still illegal to throw up your hands and then leave some sort of backhand smack as a parting gift, I may not survive.
3. Stress and Coping is taught by Andy Richter. A taller and thinner version of him, but still. I have no friends in that class, but the teacher seems fine. As far as psych teachers go.

The chances that I will turn to drink: Slim.

You know what I hate more than customers? Regular customers. With their giant boxes of books. And their relentless demands and questions and complaining about prices. You know, this was far more witty when I thought of it yesterday, and it's not really working now, so I'll jump that ship while I can.

The chances that I will punch someone when they drop a giant box of books on the counter: High.

The chances that this post will continue on to the Special Guest Topic: Low, because I didn't end up seeing Grindhouse tonight. Alas.

khaaaaaaaaaaaan

This was going to be a post, keeping with my theme of essential kernels of knowlege, pretty much as an excuse to link to the short video of Jack White recording a song for the new White Stripes album but is now about how Blogger is a bully.
I clicked on the Old Blogger button, but it kept taking me to the Make Google Account section, and when I tried No, Seriously, I Want The Old Blogger option, it took me to the Ha, You Cannot Access Your Account Unless You Sign Up With Google screen. So here I am, with New Blogger. I feel like the big kid at school made me give him my lunch money, but let me think I had choices.

Jerks.
In retaliation, I'm going to keep using Blogger, just to show them.

And here's the link I was talking about.

And the new Bright Eyes video, because I keep listening to the song over and over.

because i don't actually have anything original to say...

...here's that excerpt I talked about before, from World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War; this is told by a guy who made movies to boost the country's morale. Although the film, Avalon: The Battle of the Five Colleges, bombed initially, it was found to lower ADS (Asymptomatic Demise Syndrome, or Apocalyptic Despair Syndrome) and he made several other movies before the war was over. It's a very good book, I really liked it. So here you go:

"Just outside of Greater Los Angeles, in a town called Claremont, are five colleges --Pomona, Pitzer, Scripps, Harvey Mudd, and Claremont Mckenna. At the start of the Great Panic, when everyone else was running, literally, for the hills, three hundred students chose to make a stand. The turned the Women's College at Scripps into something resembling a medieval city. They got their supplies from the other campuses; their weapons were a mix of landscaping tools and ROTC practice rifles. They planted gardens, dug wells, fortified an already existing wall. While the mountains burned behind them, and the surrounding suburbs descended into violence, those three hundred kids held off ten thousand zombies! Ten thousand, over the course of four months, until the Inland Empire could finally be pacified. We were lucky to get there just at the tail end, just in time to see the last of the undead fall, as cheering students and soldiers linked up under the oversized, homemade Old Glory fluttering from the Pomona bell tower."

Sorry, Mary, they didn't have anything about Stanford.

color me EXCEEDINGLY DISAPPOINTED

The Mountain Goats Show (Is All Sold Out)

Am E Am E Am C G C

Since I found out, last October, that you'd be in my state
I counted the days until the show, I couldn't wait
But it was all in vain
That's been made all too plain
I spent fifteen minutes on hold listening to muzak
And though it got old I somehow still stuck with it
Casting my mind back to the morning
When tickets went on sale without warning

I was unprepared, I admit that now
Why should I have known a date and time?
How should I have known you'd get sold out?
If I could have found a payphone maybe I'd sing a different tune
But there're no payphones from here to Singapore
No one carries change for them anymore
I found a booth buried in the snow on the lawn
Little did I know that the phone was gone

A voice came on and I told her tickets were my want
And oh! I found that all my hope was all for naught
From the desperate waiting list I hope to hear
And make note for better planning, for a cell phone, next year
When the throngs sing No Children I won't be among their number
Though I thought I would, I was sure I would, last October

there's a monkey in the basement. how'd the monkey get there? how'd the monkey get there?

Because it's been a while since I've last posted, I figured it'd be just about time to blow my own horn. Although there's really no saying the horn will be blown, because anyone and everyone who wants can enter and everyone and anyone who enters has exactly the same chance of winning.
You're probably thinking: where's the link? Or explaination?

Right here.

So, yeah.
Actual update later? I've got something from a book I want to share, but the book is at work?

NOTE: Mine is (currently) the top left one. And today's entry title is taken from The Monkey Song by The Mountain Goats. Jus' so's you know.

this is going to be short, because it is late. and i am tired.

AT THE BRAINSTORMING MEETING FOR BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE:

Executive One: Have you seen that Underworld movie? We should do something like that.
Executive Two: We produced it, and I totally agree with you. Let's do it.
Executive One: Well, we've done vampires and werewolves. Vampires are always popular.
Executive Two: I like werewolves more.

THEY SLAP AT EACH OTHER FOR A MOMENT.

Executive Two (panting): I win! I win!
Executive One (also panting): N-uh! I win!
Executive Two: We could just use the same plot as Underworld.
Executive One: Brilliant! And how much should we budget for the werewolf transformation effects?
Executive Two: Nothing! We'll save millions by just using trained wolves and colored contacts!

THEY HIGH-FIVE. AND MISS HORRIBLY, SENDING AT LEAST ONE HURTLING THROUGH THE WINDOW. (It doesn't matter which. And what's with that title? It's gawdawful.)

sounds about right...

In an effort to liven things up, here's my current list of ten (actually 12 because I couldn't just choose one Okkervil River to end it with) songs to take to a desert island in no particular order.

The Fall Peter and the Wolf
Tonight Sibylle Baier
Grendel's Mother The Mountain Goats
If You See Light The Mountain Goats
I Wish That I Could See You Soon Herman Dune
Strange Machines Peter and the Wolf
Fake Palindromes Andrew Bird
Whistle of a Distant Train Ed Harcourt
The Vice and Virtue Ministry Happy Bullets
Song of Our So-Called Friends Okkervil River
The Velocity of Saul at the Time of His Conversion Okkervil River
The War Criminal Rises and Speaks Okkervil River

What are yours?

oy

I've got to make up for last night's depressing post. I'll just give you the URL for the unfinished site? Maybe you could tell me if things are all crazy or illegible or oddly phrased so I could fix them? Except for content, it's more or less how it'll be when it's done. The links should work, which is always a plus?

Click Here!

you see that slogan at the top? ignore it this once.

It's late.

I'm watching Seinfeld, and putting off writing a short story that's actually a rewrite of one I did last year and turned in to my professor (I hated turning it in because it was rushed and I hated out it turned out) so that I can show it to him come January in an attempt to get into a graduate fiction workshop he's teaching. This is the mindset I come to you with.
Just so you know.

Seinfeld, or television shows in general, are weird in that I don't notice the age difference too much: making a sort of never-never land. The difference in real life however, is that ten years seems like a tremendous amount of time. Changes that people go through in half that time can be astronomical. I don't want to get older, I really don't.
I'll know different people, I'll live somewhere else. Maybe even this blog will be a distant memory. I looked at my grandparents the other day --while my Grandma was lecturing me on not having an outline for my life, which did NOT help, faithful reader(s)-- and saw myself in their age. My hands knobbled with age, etc.

But I've got no resolution to this. It's inevitable. On a lighter note, I hope to finish my website around the middle of January. I'd give you guy(s) a link, but I just have an Under Construction page at the URL.
And things will look better in the morning, they always do.

at least the title for the new harry potter is cool

I think that I've missed my calling. I should've been in a soap opera or been a basic cable television judge. I can look shocked. Moreso, I can do it very poorly. I can also pull decisions out of a hat, regardless of any sense of the "law."
Why yes, I have been watching a half hour or so of daytime television.

three horrifying things

1. A "Global Haze" to reduce the earth's rising temperature.
2. The draft possibly being reinstated
3. Zombie apocalypse

already, he's sealed his victory as pop-culture ass of the century

Do you remember, in the Naked Gun movies, how OJ Simpson's character would constantly bumble and get terribly injured usually by fault of Leslie Nielsen? And it was often pretty funny, right? Remember?
And do you remember how he drove home, innocent as he is, very slowly on the highway while being pursued by the police? And how he killed his wife and her lover? And how the glove didn't fit? Right?
Well, most people would happily fade into the farthest part of the collective consciousness. They'd think of their two kids, who still have to go to school with other kids. They most certainly wouldn't create a sketch wherein they try to sell a used Ford Bronco because that would be in terrible terrible taste.

I read something this morning that spurred this post, and all of the above is to get you in the right frame of mind. Or something.

However awful that was, surely (SURELY!) OJ wouldn't do anything on national television. Not during prime time certainly. Because you'd think that deep down, somewhere in a part that wasn't sold to Satan, OJ would think of his kids. This is, of course, assuming that he didn't do it.
Most of all, he wouldn't reconstruct the murders, explaining, step by step, how he WOULD'VE done it. If he had. Which he didn't. No, like Michael "I will not rest until I find the real molesters" Jackson, OJ "I will not rest until I find the real murderers" Simpson didn't do it.
But the fact of the matter is that's exactly what he's doing.
The next thing you know, he'll just dig up his wife with rusty shovels that he's scratched "INNOCENT" into and demonstrate how he would've killed her. But he wouldn't do it on TV. He'd do it in the park, every hour, on the hour.

Because he classy.

just so that when book seven comes out, i can say i said it before it did

R.A.B. is Regulus Black.

easily the most absurd thing he has ever said

There's an annoying guy in my Brit Lit class who, aside from turning around in his seat to stare at whomever is talking, says inane and incomprehensible things. Today he, during a discussion of Shakespeare, suddenly put forth that the Bard was gay to which the teacher (who deserves a medal for not killing him already) replied that those sorts of reports have been made although there is little concrete evidence. He also noted that there were several biographies of late that said similar things about other historical figures; such as Abraham Lincoln and Adolf Hitler. The latter was based primarily on a photograph where he is shown in a "gay" stance, and is thus hardly basis for an entire biography. All of this is set-up for the comment for which this post is named.
So, of course, the kid said that Hitler was gay because "he kept his moustache in such good condition."
Needless to say the class couldn't let this pass as we have for so many of his other comments and people began incredulously talking amongst themselves, which unfortunately made me miss his other reasons.

I was also busy laughing with Steve.

NOTE: I would've found the picture, but I don't really want to type "gay" and "Hitler" into Google Images.

like in terminator 2!

If my hands were hit by a hammer, they would shatter and then melt and reform into my hands. Except they would be on the ground and not on my wrists where they belong. So that would suck pretty hard.
I'm trying to say that I'm outside, waiting for the bus, after getting out of Rosemary's Baby for film class and listening to the Sufjan Christmas EPs. It's very cold.
Today's been about mid-way on the "Crappy?" scale for no particular reason. Just one of those days.
I guess that's about it.
I'll probably blog again later this evening, woozy on needing to sleep. It's the last day of my nineteeth year, which is mind-boggling to me.

UPDATE:
Day=Now going all right. In 20 minutes, I will be 20. I don't really have much else to say. I'm watching Scrubs? Good times there.

EDIT:
I just now noticed the link doesn't work. Well, it does now.

how cool is that?

I just want to give a little shout-out to my friend Bob, whose movies are getting closer to actually being flimed. If you have an hour or two, I'd suggest reading Elsie Hooper in its (so far) entirety. Even if you only read a little, you'll be able to see how awesome it is.
There's no comic for his other movie, The Man Who Killed Bigfoot and then Hitler. But it has a pretty sweet title and was published, in script and serial form, on his website for a while until he had to take it down.
So yeah, I'm pretty psyched about it. It'll be fantastic to see it on the big screen.

you know what hurts a lot?

Biting your tongue really really really really hard. And not the side or the tip either, somewhere in the middle, but closer to the tip. You'd think that after almost 20 years with the same tongue I'd be used to it. Or at least I wouldn't bite it so hard it bled.
First thought upon biting tongue: "Holy crap, I just bit my tongue! What?!"

oh man oh man oh man

So. In the next week or so I'm poised to declare my majors, which is, let me tell you, pretty much terrifying. According to my advisor, I'm also supposed to start applying for grad school and graduation during my Junior year. Which is next year. Except I don't know where I want to go, and I only vaguely know what I want to do.
(Well, I know what I'd like to do and pretty much where I'd like to go, but the chances of me being able to do either is, at the moment, nil.)
This is madness, I'm not ready to be in the World yet. Who do they think I am? Some sort of person who is prepared for this?
Bah.

oook

So I was flipping around the televison and I came upon the Medical Marijuana Festival thing in Portland (or Seattle?).

I'll say this about the Medical Marijuana people: They are the reason their cause isn't really taken seriously. Yes, long-haired man with no shirt, even you. Yes, Sublime ripoff band, you too. And the speakers who appear to have dipped into their prescription before getting on stage, if you know what I mean, you're not helping either.
Actually, it's kind of sad. The guy up there now is either severely intoxicated or mentally challenged.

waiting for a customer with half a brain

SCENE: A bookstore, around three. There are many people in the store, milling about; there are several large boxes on the counter, filled with books in various degrees of disrepair. WALT is behind the counter, sitting Cratchet-like, and being pretty awesome. KATHY is off, stage right.
ENTER TWO WITCHES.

Witch, wearing sunglasses: Are you taking in books?
Walt (rising, while giving a purposeful look at the billions of other books waiting to be done): Yes, but only thirty at a time.
Witch (shocked): Thirty?
Walt: Thirty. We can only look at thirty a day.
Witch (to second Witch): They can only take thirty! (to Walt) I have more than thirty. They're from my mother-in-law's estate.
Walt (sigh): How many do you have?

The WITCH points to the largest of all the boxes.

Witch: I've got four of these in the trunk.
Walt: Well, we can only take thirty at a time. You can bring in one box and I'll count out thirty.

Enter, THIRD WITCH.

Witch (to third Witch): They'll look at a box.
Walt (with a hint of desperation): Thirty. We'll look at thirty.
Witch: Bring in a box.

Third Witch begins to exit.

Walt (strangled cry): Thirty at a time!

Enter FOOL, carrying largest box yet, overflowing with books, accompanied by THIRD WITCH. Because the counter for books waiting to be checked has absolutely no room, the FOOL puts the box on the cash register counter.

Walt: That's way more than thirty.

No one takes any notice of WALT.

Walt: So when do you want to pick these up?
Witch: What do you mean?
Walt: Well, there are (gestures to the piles of other books) quite a few people ahead of you. It's going to be a while until I can even get to these, maybe even not until tomorrow. So when do you want to pick them up? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?
Witch: Tomorrow.
Walt (setting paper down): Okay, I'll just need you to write your name, address, and phone number here.
Fool: I know how it is, man.
Walt: ...

FIRST WITCH, after writing her information down, removes her 2nd Look Books card; which baffles WALT, as he assumed that their flagrant disregard for what he was saying was a mark of a new customer. WALT begins cursing them all.

Walt: Okay, it'll be done tomorrow. (reaches for box)
Fool (smiling): Careful, it's heavy.
Walt (grinning, because you pander the insane): ...Thanks, I'll remember that.

EXIT, FOOL, WITCHES through the door and likely to the fiery depths from whence they came.

END SCENE.

...school?

Today gets a shoulder shrug. Part of it was okay, part of it (the unbearably pretentious film professor, who, rather than saying "watching movies" says "have screenings"; the bus schedule changing for the worse) was not. Thankfully my other professors don't seem bad, which is always a blessing --nothing makes a class harder to go to than a terrible teacher.
Today we "screened" Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I always enjoy; except the last fifteen minutes which succeeded in reminding me that not only do they seem supplementary, but they also meant I missed the 3 o'clock bus. What sort of madman ends a class at 3:15?! The next bus isn't until 4! I'll tell you what kind: The kind that wears all-black suits, has a shaved head (with bald-stubble), dual earrings, and assigns ridiculous (for that kind of class) amounts of reading. But it might be par for the course? How much did your film teachers assign you to read?
And the days I get home at 5 are the days that I have off. Not the days that I get home at 3. No, those days I get to go straight to work.
(The owner died yesterday morning; though it was no big surprise, it does put things a bit higher in the air. We'll probably hear from her daughter, who took over the managing a week or so ago, in a day or two. Payday's not for another 10 days, so I'm not concerned.)
But it is the first day of school, so things may look brighter in a week or so.

i couldn't find a dry towel either!

Ok, I'm writing this down so that, if I find it I'll know I didn't go mad.
What am I talking about? Laundry.
I went downstairs this morning to put my clothes from the washer to the dryer for obvious reasons. I could see that no one else had switched them as there was no pile of my laundry on the ground. This is something that always thrills me: finding my clean clothes in a wad so that I have iron anything I want to wear. If there was a puddle of water I'm sure whomever it is that does this would make sure they soaked it up. I mean, if there's someone else's clothes in the dryer when I want to use it, I fold them. The last time this happened, all of my clothes were stuffed into a shirt.
But back to the story at hand. I opened the dryer. Nothing. I opened the washer to pull them out and nothing. They weren't in there. They weren't behind the washer. I want to say they weren't in the freezer, but it just occurs to me I haven't checked. They aren't in the freezer. They weren't in my laundry basket. Ditto for in the laundry room, the basement, the first floor, anyone's room, the stairs, etc. My clothes have vanished.
Thankfully, I still have a couple of clean shirts, shorts, and boxers. They weren't wiley enough to go into my closet. However, I am on my last pair of clean socks. And there's no one home to question. This goes beyond inconsideration, and unless I find my clothes hanging up, having been dry cleaned and pressed, I'll just call it malice. Why would they do something like this? It's ridiculous.

And no, they're not outside, strewn in the bushes.

EDIT: They were neatly folded. In a room I hadn't checked. Of course.

there were no other people to witness the stupidity

I had to work my shift alone today, which isn't that big of a deal, but it did seem to bring out my share of crazies. The following is true, though their names have been changed because I didn't get them.
A man and wife came into the store with reasonably sane looks on their faces.
"Donnie": "Who's in charge?"
Now, right here they could be any number of things. See if you can guess: (a) Potential buyers, (b) Money collectors, or (c) Narcissistic Idiots. If you are reading this, you'll know that the answer is (d), Absolute Morons With Short Tempers. Let's see how long it takes those tempers to burn out, shall we?
Me (as I am alone and pretty much the senior employee anyway): "I am."
Muscle-Shirt Donnie: "Oh, great."
Faithful readers and/or people who know me will be able to visualize what's just happened in the time it took him to say Oh, Great: Donnie's stock has plummeted. If you're a jackass, I will probably not help you as much as I would. But anyway, back to the story.
Me: "Can I help you?"
"Marie": "Who's your manager?"
Me: "I am."
More shaking of heads. I can see that part of them is incredulous that some young kid is the head of this particular shift and the other part is thinking that they can push me over. Had they been nice before or had become nice as this goes on, I would've helped them out. But no.
They tell me what the problem is. I won't give you the line by line because honestly I don't remember it all, but I'll give you the main points.
1. Marie gave the store a list of books she wanted.
2. She went to Alaska.
3. Her husband, while she was in Alaska, bought two books for $4.80 each.
4. She already has those books.
5. "I don't read these kinds of books, I read car manuals."
6. She did not give us a list, she told us a list and some lady wrote it down.
Me (after #6): "When you give us a list, or however else we get a list, we put your name and number on the book on the computer and throw the list away." Of course this does not matter nor penetrate their skulls. They want us to be able to read their minds and to stop them when they buy multiple copies. The books, she tells me, weren't even on the list.
I realize that I'm shaking. I shake when people are pissing me off and I'm trying to keep my voice even. It's one of my less useful traits.
They go on about how they don't want a refund (then why are they doing this? I also hate it when people say they don't want credit or a refund or something of the sort, but they clearly do). They say a bunch of other stuff, and mention that they've called and talked to someone who said that they can't help them. Gee, I don't know why, they're so personable. Donnie goes out to get the books after I say that I'll look and see if we can take them for credit.
Marie echoes that they have two copies and don't need two copies and that he (her husband) bought the erranious copies while she was in Alaska. She asks for the owner's name. Every fiber in my being is saying: Say "What??!" very loudly and walk away or do something less pleasant. But what I say as steadily as my shaking will allow is:
"I don't see how this is our fault."
And her mouth drops open. I can see in her eyes that she would like to throttle me. She inhales to say something that would probably be unprintable. So I cut her off with:
"Fine, you want the owner's name; fine, here it is."
Meanwhile, Donnie comes in with the two copies of the two books. Did they think I wouldn't believe them? Whatever. I check to see if we can take them. Karma is sweet: not only do we already have two copies, but they haven't been sold since August 18th. I say that we can't take them, but they can try again some other time. Donnie laughs in that absolutely annoying way that people who are used to getting their way and suddenly don't and they don't believe it laugh.
And because I'm getting riled up just thinking about it, I'm going to jump right to the end.
They storm out and Donnie says "The word is out" like he's threatening to tell all his friends. Oh no, we're going to lose all of our key block-head demographic! I end up shaking for a while longer, but calm down eventually.
And...scene.

it's about par for the day, actually (i can't wait for work!)

Well. This probably entitles me for some kind of Blogger Least Likely To award, but the forementioned pictures won't be up until tomorrow. I don't really have a good reason except I need to finish cleaning my room, which also requires me to recover from the explosion that is my siblings staying here for extended periods. I'm going to try to get it done before I go to work so I can get them done tomorrow morning, and if I get into a real frenzy, maybe even long enough before so that I can take them before and then upload when I get home.
Is this the most boring entry ever? Perhaps.

In other news, Gilmore Girls Season 4 got here today with two Disc 5's and zero Disc 6's. After looking at the Best Buy site, it seems that I'll have to warm up my incredulous voice as they do not accept opened DVD returns.
"I wouldn't have opened it, except my psychic powers are a bit rusty lately, and I wanted to be sure."
"Yes, I bought two copies and Disc Six is just so much more superiour to Disc Five that I didn't even want Five any more, even though it has twice as many episodes."

And I get to work Sundays now because the girl who was going to work only Sundays got fed up with the check thing and quit entirely. Yes! Seven days a week! Let's start betting on how long it'll be until I throw someone complaining about the prices through the window, Western-style. We're having a sale, I give it a week.

EDIT: I have to work 3.5 hours earlier than I thought tomorrow. Which means my plans for the pictures are once again in limbo! Damn you, work!

up here, the air is cleaner, the air is thinner

I'm going to try something new. You can try it too, if you want. But I'll go first.
That's right, I'm going to review an EP and then give you the link to download it. Because that's just how I roll.

The Mountain Goats Jack & Faye
The lead singer of The Mountain Goats reminds me of what would happen if you were to meld Stephen Colbert and Jason Schwartman into a single guitar-strumming person. However, he sounds more like Colin Meloy and Ben Gibbard. But enough with the comparisons! Put them away with all of your misplaced socks.
Listening to Jack & Faye is like finding a book that someone wrote FOR someone else but it's been long forgotten; sitting and gathering dust among other books FOR people, personal personal works that embody a time and place completely. It was recorded in 1996, which is the tip of the tail end of their lo-fi period, and rightly has some of that dust on it. His voice is a little shaky in some parts, most notably on "There Will Always Be an Ireland" without drawing away from the song itself. If you've heard any live Colin Meloy recordings, you'll know what to expect in that respect.
The songs are plains of grass, ancient ruins that have grown over with ivy and bush. Every now and again the music will swell and a backup singer will follow him. You're standing on a hill in the plain and the swell hits you and you follow the wind of it with your eyes down into the valley to the river there. It's a little chilly, but you wore your windbreaker, and that helps.
Maybe you'll find something there you weren't expecting.

[the EP and many more songs, along with ones I haven't listened to, can be downloaded here.]
Also recommended: "Cubs in Five," "Get Lonely" and "Sometimes I Still Feel the Bruise," which are available on request or on iTunes.

If I do end up doing more of these, I'll aim for one every week or so. If only to keep my mind off of the insane people I have to deal with earlier in the day.

who were you before the fall?

I officially hate my work.
Why? Well, let me tell you why...
I'm sure I mentioned the whole "Having to Pack and Move a Storage/Former Bookstore Extension Area in 48 Hours." But John came into work drunk as a skunk this morning at 11 and was driven home shortly afterward by a customer to whom I will be forever indebted. I was going to have to tell him to go home when it got slow. I really wasn't looking forward to it. And the customers don't help. If one more customer comes in with shit books and acts like they're bestowing a gift upon us and then gets mad when we don't take them all, I might have to relocate some teeth. And of course nothing relates to the destruction of moral or the skunking of John more than not getting paid and having the owner seemingly disappear. Working seven days a week for a non-existent owner who does not want to pay overtime and yet has a lack of wanting to hire anyone else isn't so hot on the not becoming frayed.
I'm not even twenty. I shouldn't have to feel worn thin by my work already. Unless I was a Doogie Howser, I guess then it'd be understandable.
[/rant]
Sheesh, I can't not complain, eh?
(i was a singer, saw the future laid out in dominoes; now i hunt the buffaloes)

Holy crap, Steve Irwin, so the preview for the news has just told me, is dead. Crazy. And not by crocs either.

That's right, my blog: come for the complaining but stay for the slightly morbid announcements of celebrity death.

flickr?

I'm posting this here mostly so that I, myself, remember to actually do the deed, but I shall FINALLY update the ol' flickr account the next time I have a day off. Which might be as soon as Sunday?
That's right, I use valuable valuable blogging space as Post-It Notes. It'll be like Cribs (Cribz? I don't really know) but with less of me in a doo-rag and a trucker hat flashing gang signs and saying things like "yo" and "word" and more "this is [name of thing]."
Mark your calendars! For an indeterminate date!

EDIT: I actually don't have Sunday off, but I do get out early. So I'll shoot for Sunday.
Why must my schedule be "Days that end in Y"?

EDIT EDIT: Camera=not in the house. I'll get to it as soon as humanly possible.

unintentionally humorous book of the day:

Slipcover Chic: Designing and Sewing Elegant Slipcovers at Home

Apparently covering your furniture with various flowered fabrics is the "in" thing to do. Oh, and ruffles!

now what do we call mickey's dog?

As you've no doubt heard, Pluto is no longer a planet.
There are now eight planets. It must have been an adjustment back in the day when it was inducted into planet-dom, but now it's no more. Well, it's still there, out in the "Trans-Neptune Belt", but you know what I mean. (What about when it orbits in front of Neptune?) I don't know, Pluto never really affected me, I can't name its discoverer, I never did a school project on it; but it was always there: a small ball of ice floating out in the nether-reaches.
What next? Will there be only eleven months? Should February begin locking its door at night?
Like I said, it's not, in the greater Cosmic Sense, huge. Our tides aren't controlled by Pluto. It certainly can't be terraformed.
But those of you who read old scifi in your childhoods will know what I'm talking about. A rose by any other name wouldn't smell as sweet. [Forgive me, I really hate how cliche that sounds, but I can't think of anything else. Look at the posting time.] No one's going to stop and smell the snarglebargin. [Oh man, I clearly need to go to bed.]

I'm just glad I'm not a teacher and I don't have to scramble to change my lesson plan.

tidbit?

Am I the only one who's really excited about The Science of Sleep?

Because I shouldn't be, if I am.

In other news, it is close to 100 here in the daytime. And my family is at the boat all week while I work, which sounds worse than it is.

yadda yadda yadda

Ok, I didn't want this to into something that should probably be titled "Walt Bitches About Stuff & Occasionally Makes a Snide Remark", but I've been working for most of this week and will be working for a good portion of next week, so it's going to for now at least. Like crappy B-sides this entry shall be marked "For Completeists Only."
At work, we have a little list of rules for the books we take in. I know I've mentioned them before, but here they are again, in Handy List format:
1. Have fewer than the maximum amount of the title
2. Not be in crappy condition
3. Not too old; if a Romance, or a cook book, or something we haven't had in before
4. Not a textbook or a magazine
Those are easy enough to follow, which leads us to my first complaint. For the love of all that is holy, why did the owner replace two excellent with two people who have absolutely no experience. In bookstores, I could see. Using the cash register, I can see that too; I didn't have either of those when I started. But I mean No Experience. With retail or retail-related fields. With basic motor functions. With not taking in third and forth copies. New Hiree #1, whom I will call "Gail" because that is her name, I have the most problems with. Why? Because she is as to making things easy as a cyclone is to keeping things neat. I could write pages about that, but I don't want to because I would end up in a corner weeping. Just take my word. I know she can't help looking almost constantly confused or like the last bulb has just blown or those gawdawful pigtails. You're late forties/early fifties. Stop with the pigtails. And what's with wearing aprons? The books rarely explode and only occasionally secrete poisonous substances. Unless those shirts are really expensive. Then why are you wearing those shirts?

Ok, done with that.

New Hiree #2 "Jo", because it is easier/faster to spell than Barbara, has the same deer-in-headlights look as Gail. She also is a closer. Which means that I don't have to. But it doesn't help when I have to go and help her close. Which is, of course, directly related to Gail's muck ups. Oh well, except for easily-freakout-ability which seems to be very In right now, I don't have much of a problem with her.
Now, it's time for my Handy List of How to Get More Books Taken for Credit, as created and used by Walt:
1. Do not, ever, ever come in with a huge box of books less than a half-hour before closing
2. If you are annoying or walk away while I'm looking up a book you wanted to know about, don't even bring books in an hour before closing
3. Because then you are an ass
4. If you are Guy Who Acts Like We Are Buddies But We Totally Aren't, Guy Who Brings In Books Two Minutes Before We Close, Guy Who Brings Books Ten Minutes After We Close And Then Knocks On The Door Until I Ask You What You Want And Then Tells Me A Sob Story, Woman Who Smells Strongly Of Onions, or Guy Who Sits In The Chair And Orders His Daughter(s) Around And Me Too To Get Books Even If I Am Clearly Very Busy Or If The Books Are Right Downstairs Go Down There And Get Them Your Damn Self Or At Least Pretend To Be Polite, I will take as few of your books as humanly possible
5. If you complain about the price, I will stab you. In my mind. If you have a history of complaining you get less than 10% of my attention. Because the rest of my mind is thinking about stabbing or something far less violent, like how long it is until we close or what to get for lunch
6. I lied, the other less than 10% is not paying attention, I'm either thinking about how long until we close or what to get for lunch. Or stabbing
7. Ok, you can bring in a big box of Romances if we've had them in before and I don't have to enter them in the computer. Because those things are hilarious

I'm done with that, and I solemnly swear that I won't talk about work again unless it is a humorous story. If you actually read through this whole thing, I will bake you cookies or something.

it's been one of those days

Oh man, I wrote an About Me for Facebook that was long enough to pass for a blog, so I cut it to post. Of course, once I opened the page and pressed Apple+V, I get a link back to the Edit Profile page. The most ironic, if that's the word I want, part is that I had already filled in the title for this entry. I'll give it a shot though; I remember most of it.

I was nearly in an accident this evening. I was driving down Lincoln from work, mere blocks (two), from my house when a GIANT BLACK SUV OF DEATH WITHOUT ITS LIGHTS ON pulled out to my right. He did stop as an afterthought halfway into the lane, however; which was very nice of him. It's not like I was coasting along, stealth-like, either. I could see why he had gone with the "no lights" motto if it had been light (literally and figuratively). Or day. Or the daytime of the night. But it was none of those. It was dark. I had my lights on. The whole ROW of cars behind me had their lights on. Because it was night. A time for lights.
It did remind me of the other time that happened to me. This was during the day, which was handy for anticipating and side-stepping the Hand of Death. I was driving home from the Park & Ride, minding my own business, when someone else decided to pull the What Stop Sign? trick on me. I had slowed down because anyone could see that she was not about to stop, or even slow down, for anything as meaningless as a stop sign. However, she was gracious enough to leave me half of the intersection to drive through; and to give me the Impatient Wave so I knew that it was clear to pass.
It's like when, after failing to take me out at the knees due to my lightning-quick reflexes, the woman quickly pulling out of the McDonald's drive-thru hollered "Watch where you're going!" How foolish of me to think that, in the little pedestrian crosswalk that I am halfway through, with cars going by stage left, I could walk without care.

I'm trying, of course, to say that I'm tired of studying Poetry.

update time, schmupdate time

Only four weeks and three days until I am done with this quarter. Did you know that it gets warmer later on in the year? Did you know that being in a house with no air conditioning or swamp cooler sucks pretty hard? Because the answer to both of those questions is a resounding "It does". It may be 'cooler' here than in Tucson, but when you factor in humidity and lack of AC, it hardly feels it. I've spent the past week or so fondly remembering watching the mercury rise outside while the temperature inside remained, wait for it, comfortable. Thank God for giant fans and having windows on both sides of rooms.

Classes proceed much as they have: blaahh.

Does anyone remember...and the name escapes me as I write this...the movie with Sara Jessica Parker and Bette Midler and that other woman who play witches, and it has a talking cat, and some kid who moves into town and his sister gets kidnapped by the witches...? Anyway, I have a sudden urge to watch it. Netflix needs to provide instantaneous service. Instantaneous mind-reading service.

Needless to say, it's terribly exciting up here. I'd go out and about, taking pictures and such, but like I said: hot, humid.

birds over the sea

Biology was, blessedly, cancelled today. I'm sitting in the library wondering whether or not I should go to Poetry. It's been one of those days already. Anyway, this is a story I wrote for my Fiction class last quarter, I've been meaning to post it for a while.

It was a Sunday, a day for writing letters instead of receiving them, a day that swept itself underneath Adrian’s door and fogged his apartment with wasted possibility. His sister was telling him about her house in California, how very much the water looked like a painting --so blue! from her window and how long it took Harry to carry all of the boxes into the living room. Adrian pressed his finger to the dirty glass in his kitchenette and slowly wiped away a month of dust into smooth tendrils of nonsense patterns that curled and connected like thoughts running through his head.
“What’s your address?” Adrian asked because they had run out of things to talk about and the conversation lagged, tumbled and lay gasping for breath in a ditch. “I’ll send you a letter.”
“I don’t know yet; they haven’t put the street sign up,” she sighed, and he could hear her breath echoing in a glass like they were talking in a cave. “I hate that there’s gonna be a house across the street soon. It’ll block the ocean and I’ll forget what it looks like.”
“You should take a picture,” he said. Once he said it, he regretted it, the words reminded him of school yard taunts.
It’ll last longer.
“Maybe I’ll just burn it down.” Her voice boomed into the telephone, he was at the bottom of a well and she was leaning over the edge, bouncing the words down; somewhere he could hear the seagulls calling to each other; Go, go, they urged as they circled around the water that sang on its own. “And dance around the fire.” He stared through the lines he had made to the highway that curled around his building; endless hissing cars sped by. “When are you going to visit us, Adrian? You should come visit soon.”
In the evening there was just him and the quiet gurgle of a coffee pot; the secret mumbling of it and the creaking wheeze of the building that crept around his apartment. They were all waiting for Rosemary, who worked in a law office downtown, and came home smelling like old coffee and toner; the smell followed her dog-like, it ran around, nipping at his nose. She came through the door and laid on the couch like someone had thrown her there; one leg over the back, another over the rough arm of it, and arms sprawled behind her head. He watched her when she did this, her quick pantomime motions like she was constantly trying something out in front of a mirror; even when she raised her head and looked over at the coffee pot it looked like a reflection of what she saw once.
“Let’s go out tonight.” He said it as if no one had ever gone out before and the weight of it pressed down on her, pinning her to the couch.
“I’m tired.”
I know you are, but what am I?
“Alright,” he tried to sound casual but suspicion pushed at him and he was certain that it had been in his mouth and she could see it if she looked; maybe she didn’t care. “I don’t know where we’d go anyway.”
She kicked off her shoes and stretched, her toes quivered like ten little birds ready to fly away. He had seen that anxiousness before. It was there while she dressed and how she dried her hair and in the time between sleep and waking up. More and more often Adrian saw it.
They went out to dinner a week later. It was Italian, because Rosemary liked Italian, the sauce and the wine of it; they had met at an Italian restaurant where he worked forever ago. She came in often enough that he knew her name, knew where she liked to sit, and that she was single. The night he asked her out, he got a haircut and stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom saying “Hi” or “Hello” or “Hey.” He was convinced it was the opening that was important. In the end he made a gurgling noise when they were walking to their cars.
“Did you see the plane crash in the paper today?” A plane had lost control in a storm and plowed through a highway in Rome, the fire and smoke pillaring into the black sky. There were pictures on television with somber news anchors who spoke like they knew this would make or break their career, and bleary-eyed mothers who screamed and wept and clutched their rosaries. “It looked pretty bad,” she finished, the furrow in her brow nestled between her eyes for a moment, and took a breadstick.
He drank his wine and poured another glass, “What are you going to have?” He didn’t want to talk about the crash. He wanted to forget everything that was beyond the table like forgetting a dream, letting it fade into vague, disjointed bits of nothing shapes. “I was thinking about the tortellini.”
Their food came slowly on the arms of a sullen waitress, who held their food --tortellini for him, and a mass of cheese and pasta, the name of which Adrian had forgotten, for her-- alternately as if it were garbage and as if it were a fierce living thing that would leap from the plates and attack her. But away from her stained shirt. Always away.
Outside, it had begun to rain, and the rain came down the windows like a frayed curtain, blurring everything. He saw an ambulance race by in a red and blue smear of purpose. It was doing something, helping people. Whenever someone asked Adrian what he did for a living, which was rarely, he would tell them that he was a writer; sometimes, when he was drunk, he would say that he was published too. After all, there had been a small amount of local enthusiasm when he sent off his manuscript --Swing Sets--, and he figured, in a stumble and a haze, that that was worth something. But what little enthusiasm there was seemed to have dragged itself outside of city limits with a broken wing and died there, cawing weakly to the end.
“I wonder what it would feel like to have your life end just like that,” Rosemary said. Adrian chewed a tortellini and watched her fine gold necklace dance against her skin while she spoke. He’d finish the bottle soon.
Would they have to talk about the crash? The lives lost and ruined? He didn’t want to think about any kind of great change, much less something on that scale, it seemed like the end of the world. There were great masses of fuselage wedged into the ground; smoking craters like footsteps. “You probably wouldn’t know what had happened,” he mumbled to get her to drop the subject and to move onto something else.
“But,” she paused and looked purposefully out the window to the wet streets gleaming eerily in the lights. “What’s it feel like to be dead, you know?”
“Probably something like this.”
There had been phone calls when someone’s breathing answered his Hello, and then the sick flat dial tone that resounded in his ear; short messages on the answering machine with nothing but silence.
She looked into his face. His lips were numb and wavered a little.
I’m rubber, you’re glue...
He was more than a little drunk and its blanket clung to him, making him feel more paranoid, more angry, more secure in speaking, perhaps, than he should have felt. “Who’s the guy who keeps calling?” There was a sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with the pasta, nothing to do with the wine, and everything to do with how he could tell that everything was going to come out of his mouth: tumbling and awkward, covering the table with half-words and spilling onto the floor with no way for someone to come and mop it up. “What’s his name?”

There was a squawking retort, a clattering, swearing mess of sound outside his door. When he woke up, she was gone. There wasn’t a note, she had taken most of her clothes, most of her things, pictures from the refrigerator lay on the floor, little lifeboats on the great tile sea.
He sent letters the next day. Two envelopes: one with his sister’s name on it and LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA underneath, like he was sending it to some misnamed and misplaced Santa Claus, and the other with his name and his address underneath. He also sent a postcard with the Seattle skyline looking how tourists must imagine it: sparkling, with the sun high in the frame, bloated cartoon letters in the lower right corner. That one went to Rosemary’s old house, in case the people there were in the habit of forwarding mail.