Trees and stuff are outside everyday, and they are usually beautiful. It all deserve a page or two. The problem is I only see the forest. But I see each lumberjack’s jacket and the bridges and the roads. But the concretes only see the forest; they too cannot see a shrub. I was sitting on the bridge, and I saw a school of fish and a school of thought. I distinguished a couple thoughts but could not discern a fish, although I knew the school was there. There was a sea of scales, and I decided that I didn’t want to go swimming that day. But the other swimmers headed to the pool, and bought packs of bubblegum after practice. All the pieces went into all of their mouths together. After their jaws got tired, their moms arrived, and it would have been strange chewing bubblegum in the car anyway.

Sometimes I plan ahead

A nice outdoorsy man sells books sometimes outside of the Student Union. He's got crooked teeth and wears a bucket hat. His book collection has been accumulating since he was five. I like buying books from him because they're really cheep and they all have a living history. I bought E.M. Forster's The Longest Journey and Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov for five dollars yesterday. I usually have to justify myself to all the critics here, especially with books and shit. I knew I probably would not read them anytime soon, but I admire the guy and his great collection.

I was preparing my brief about why I bought these books when I bumped into a friend who I hadn't seen in a while. We decided to play pool like we did a lot last semester. I left my books in the pool hall and didn't even notice they were missing until this morning. I felt kind of unhappy for a couple reasons before that and realizing that I had forgotten about those books all day brought me lower. I eventually tried to gloss over the mishap and chance upon the books, but after an entire Friday night I didn't have much hope. When I got to the pool hall, I was happy to find the Forster book where I left it. The other one was gone. I know Dostoyevsky's hot, and that's why I bought his book. I guess the motherfucker who stole my book must have decided that Dostoyevski was worthy of theft but not Forster. Or he also knows Dostoyevsky's hot. I would rather both gone. I didn't buy them together for them to be compared and judged the way this fucker did. I wanted to read the books in the summertime. Now I only have what someone believes to be the lesser of the two.

I'm going to watch Nailin Palin in the lecture hall now, free to hate the player and the game.

Porridge

No one can shit in Tropic of Cancer. It's not something that is seriously addressed, but it's very funny when it comes to the fore. Like when Miller discovers that his depraved friends start going out to breakfast everyday. He is certainly impressed and surprised that he is so close to some people that eat a meal everyday at the same time. They're eating at some family-friendly place because it serves cheep porridge all day. And porridge makes you shit.

I'm doing laundry and getting ready to fly on inauguration day. I can't wait to see all the clogged up people in the airport.

Just do it already

Happy New Year

I don't want to be a wet blanket.

maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee

and never ever watch the ten o'clock news

Before, he used to go about in an old cap, a hood tied tightly,
with wooden knucklebones in his ears, and around his ribs
the hairless hide of an ox,
the unwashed covering of a worthless shield, consorting
with bread-women and willing whores, that scoundrel Artemon,
contriving a fraudulent livelihood;
often he had his neck in the stocks, often on the wheel;
often his back was scourged with a leather whip, his hair and beard plucked out.
But now he rides in a carriage wearing golden earrings, that son of Kyke, and he carries an ivory parasol just the way the ladies do.

-Anacreon

If I was a master thief, perhaps I'd rob these guys.

all in the game

The Wire got me thinking about some shit from awhile back that apparently I don't care about anymore: Allhiphop.com. Growing up? Fuck me.

I’m pissed that the site is more developed, with pretty serious advertisements and too many things to click on. I am amusing that they still don’t really have the rights to the songs they post. I stayed because a flash across the screen showed that Eminem and Dre had tried again, ensuring “Dre on beats and Em on the rhyme.”

I thought it was bad, but this got me:

I'm an itch you can’t scratch
That’s sick of me [Maybe this is wrong?]
But, hey!
What else can I say?
I love L.A.!
Because over and above all, it’s just another day.

(I totally manipulated the presentation of these lines)

I initially thought he said “a niche you can’t scratch,” which is why I listened again. One insatiable niche came to mind: the auto industry. I thought it was some insight from Detroit’s finest.

This might be the most offensive song that I’ve ever heard, from probably the most offensive artist in recent years. It’s great that Em is still analyzing the game from the promise land, but the image of him cracking a bottle of Champaign in Los Angeles talking about his payroll-long dick while Detroit is eating shit seems insensitive. In a choirboy shout out at the very end of the song, some dude pathetically invokes Em’s former place of glory: “Shout to all Detroit. Stand up for your man he’s back.” A vague reference to something he used to know.

Could the revamped image of Eminem do something for the ailing motor city? The idea is just sad with the release of this track. I mean, I don't even know very much about the market, but I'm pretty sure saying "fourth quater pressure! it's on!" is something that would be best left out of the world of the popular culture right now. As far as I can tell, the parralels to the market situation are inadvertant. I'm scared to think that he's creating these frightening connections on purpose (pouring Draino down a volcano) just based on what he has to say about his life in L.A.

In fact, I hope this stirs the same controversy that he caused with degrading remarks to women and gays. He’s a heterosexist, womanizer, and disillusioned, hypocritical classist! Keep him away from the children.

Maybe it’s a good idea for the nation to follow his example and forget the place. I’m tempted to look more closely at all the insolent things he says while Detroit is listening, but I can’t pursue this any further.

I responded to my ubercreepster this morning:

I think I've got the lotion, ubercreepster, to set your wheels in motion. I was required to fill out a personal statement yesterday to fulfill the application process for a program that I think I am considering. One of many personal questions they forced me to consider concerned my interests. They phrased their question as follows:

What are your interests?

How I slaved over this question! I was certain the only relevant response was an indication of my interest in the questioner's program. Heck, I wanted to tell my interviewer, my interests are the same as yours. Clearly we want something similar, otherwise we would not be undergoing this strange process of acquaintance. I understood that this was an inappropriate response, as it seemed necessary to assert some sort of individuality in order to distinguish myself as a candidate. The following was my signed response:

I am interested in doing what I am told. For I know that what we want is the same. If you think that my service or companionship will help you achieve what you want, then by golly whatever we share must serve the same purpose for me.

A text message:

The world is certainly mocking me, Patrick. I am certain of it. What I believe to be a single endeavor inevitably ends up in many places. You, Patrick, appear to be part of this conspiracy. The conspiracy against me in which there is a crowd that dissects my perceived intentions and presumes them to be more than they are. Can you see how this would make me feel like I must eventually be in multiple places at once, when I only want to be in one? This is how the world mocks me. This is why I cannot desire anything with superb confidence. I am too concerned my objective or passion will be misconstrued. Why must my existence be validated (invalidated?) based on this conglomeration of these conceptions? Patrick, sometimes I intend my words to expire with time or another form that makes them somehow distant or foreign. I think this happens very easily. I don't want to use the word "metatextual" for fear of reactionary remarks. I believe in a metatextual outline intended to govern communication. I feel like this has been violated. I'm not sure if this violation will be beneficial or not.

I know this confession will not be redistributed beyond my control, left out like an old fruit, inviting every irresponsibly reproducing fly.