March 2001 | Main
| May 2001
April 26, 2001
[this is bb bunny...]
|This is BB Bunny. She
is a Super Spy. Someday she will be famous and will have
a theme song sung by professionals. Right now, she just
pretends to be famous, as evidenced by her famous sunglasses
and scarf. You will learn more about her later. Her particulars
are currently highly confidential. But, I can divulge
this: The Bs in BB Bunny stand for Bunny.
April 22, 2001
[note about life...]
Note about Life: I
like my apartment more when it's warm out. Except: someone
is parked outside, and when a large vehicle drives by, the
car alarm goes off. This has happened four times today. Something
should be done.
Pointless and Unfunny In/Out List
Nostalgia for mid-1980's
|Nostalgia for mid-1980's
female pop stars
|Imitation polo shirts
||The crocodile on men's
||The first season of
"The Real World"
|Reading a lot of books
at the same time
||Finishing any of them
your head completely
April 19, 2001
[today, as my mom...]
Today, as my mom told me about a new game show in which contestants are ridiculed by the host (she thinks I'd find it funny, but it sounds so tasteless), I wondered what percent of the US population has been on television. Some quick research on Google is yielding no results.
My mom has been on TV twice. I've been on TV once. My dad has been on at least once. I don't know about my brother. Greg's prom was broadcast on a local station, but does that count? I guess so. I don't think I would count Channel 11, the station that broadcasts clumsily videotaped elementary school plays, as "TV." I mean, it is TV, but I don't think you could ever prove you were on TV if you were on that station, because facial details are obscured by distance and shoddy camera quality.
I really want to know the answer to this. I have my own theories about Warhol's 15 Minutes idea, but I would want some stats to back it up and help me sound like I know what I'm talking about.
Speaking of plays, this weekend is the St. Francis of Assisi Parish Theatre production of Wizard of Oz. Greg and I are going to help daddy backstage with all the backstage stuff. And we're going to eat marvelous takeout from Drexel Hill Jr. Pizza on Saxer Avenue - please patronize them if you're ever in Springfield. They know their hoagies.
April 17, 2001
[cleaned up greg's resume...]
Cleaned up Greg's resume today. It looks pretty now. And I think it sounds pretty good, too.
Burnt my knuckle on the toaster oven.
Poured water into the proper receptacle of my car. It's been thirsty lately. It has holes.
Did not do dishes.
Did not deal with email backlog.
Wore new jeans, size bigger than usual - though I guess this new bigger size is "usual" now. Felt fat.
Drove 56 miles, all told. Found that Phil Collins is another inescapable artist on Philadephia radio; his music is inoffensive to many area program directors.
Greg, a Phil fan himself, frequently tells me I'm insane. This is debatable.
But I do believe I am becoming increasingly unintelligent and less eloquent. As ever, I am lazy when I can get away with it.
April 04, 2001
[i read some of this...]
I read some of this stuff and felt inspired, but then stifled. Similar to when I first laid eyes on this. Not a perfect web site, but very well designed.
My writing skills are melting, melting. My most recent self-revelation is that I am overly fond of superficial details. For instance: I really loved the part in Being John Malkovich with the historical video about the 7.5th floor from 1982, because they hit what that sort of video would have been like in 1982 on the head. That was my favorite part of the movie. Same thing with Boogie Nights and the little documentary about Dirk & the gang that his friend made for him. Actually, maybe it was the outtake version that was in the special features. Whatever. Anyway, they made a lame 1970s washed-out low budget film perfectly. In short, I like these things because they look right. Anything I like, it's because it looks right. Agh.
I guess it isn't just that it looks right, but it looks right for what it's trying to be, particularly if it is trying to pass itself off as something from an earlier decade. I am not entirely superficial, she insists. Being able to capture the subtleties of fashion for a given year, and not to overdo it, is a talent. Because... because it requires a familiarity with and understanding of American visual history and its relation to culture. Yes.
This tendency toward superficiality has been pointed out to me before, particularly in a writing class, over a story that was littered (literally) with pop culture references. I briefly considered my own superficiality at that time, seeing as I was the superficial character I was writing about in a glazed over fashion. Ultimately, I just didn't fully comprehend the implications. Now, I just don't know what to do about it.
April 02, 2001
[i'm slightly tipsy...]
I'm slightly tipsy right now off of Michelob Amber Bock. (*Notice how I wasn't "very with it" in the previous entry, as well. I guess when I am with it, I have better things to do than share my disassociated thoughts.) Amber Bock is one of the few beers I like. It's a dark lager, and I recommend it highly. You know, my dad used to let me sip his beer when I was 4. He thought it was funny. He was only 29 at the time. The first time I ever felt anything off of beer was when I was 12. We were having a garage sale, selling a lot of stuff before we moved. Dad let me finish about half a can of beer, and it brought me to the edge of sobriety. We sold my white plastic bedroom set that day. Then I cut school to buy new cherrywood furniture with my mom. I think the official reason was pink eye. I felt okay enough to shop for dressers.
A lot of times when I listen to Bruce Springsteen songs, I think of the people who live in my old town. I think Bruce is talking about them.
Today I met with a girl who I am considering as a roommate. We looked at a charming apartment about 3 blocks from where I work. I could roll out of bed at 7:30 and make it into work by 8, if I were so inclined. But it was small. Too small, I think.