Matt tells me that I am offically old balls.

On my way home I passed a young girl selling lemonaid. I had to stop and buy some. I gave her a dollar. She asked me if I wanted change. I said no. She had no sign, just a TV table the thing of lemonaid, a couple of cups and a book. Somethings, I guess, you just know.

And ... I'm back?

While I was passing out at nine tonight all of the important women in my life called me.

So this here sun went down. On a nice lazy day.

It's amazing how easy everything is when you have all night. Even, really, when you don't.

We wanted it to be spring so bad that we left our coats at home to find it a bit chilly downtown.

Bitch, you fingered my girlfriend.

I always have trouble sleeping when I know I should be drinking.

As if there wasn't enough recently, a bit of narrative. Meet Kristin's sister (Melinda) and a friend (Kay Kay) for lunch. Four some. At a place called The West End near Columbia (the real one). End up spending the afternoon on Columbia's quad. Which reminds my surpsingly of the quad at the U of I, except a bit smaller. Same shit, though. We take a nap. Share a Snickers bar. Make our way to a Catholic Church. Big one. Midieaval style. Crazy right now. Fire. Have been, in 2001. Which had to have been a pisser, I'd think. Get ahold of Kelli O'Toole who we meet for a couple of drinks. She just bought a wedding dress (this is finally happening). Talk about theatre. A bit. I love it. Talk about this movie she's working on. Talking about the things you talk about. The friend things. Goddamn, I love friends. Old friends the best. Kelli heads back to Astoria. Kristin and I make our way somewhere. Somewhere called Toast. Another four some. This time Melina's boyfriend (Juan). Have a nice dinner. Make our way back to north Manhattan. Am blown off by both Anusha and Crystal. And, indirectly, Alison Mahoney. But, honestly, all in all, a good trip. The warmest it has been when I have been in NYC. Whatever that is worth.

We're off to see us some bodies.

Holy mother of god. I don't know if there's any more to say. Post seeing Children of a Lesser God this evening, done by Keen Theatre Company (friend's of Kristin's) we were invited and then attended "Black Lung Bowling," which, I might add, was set in the coolest place I've ever seen ever. Ever. There is, no joke, an abandoned bowling alley below this theatre. Fuck yes. Fuck right. Fuck all. Two lanes. Manual set up. A shit ton of balls hanging out. A shit ton of pins around. Ceilings maybe eight feet (on a good day). The sort of thing that makes you think, "Goddamn, this city never burned down, did it? This could easily be a hundred years old. Thomas Jefferson could have bowled here." But then you realize you're just in an enclosed space with twenty or so people who happen to be bowling. So what the fuck does it matter? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Some things are just not explained. That is okay.

Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd.

Alright, so I flew to Pittsburg last night by way of Detroit. I then took the drive from Pennsylvania to The Empire State. Crossed the George Washington Bridge (I sank it, I sank the George Washington Bridge!) at rush hour. Made some parky park with Kristin in upper Manhattan and now I am at Harlem Tuesday which is in Astoria these days. Walking down by the river (I'm not sure which one) near the Hellgate Bridge (wtf?) and busted by the police (WTF?). All of it true. You heard it here first.

The sober man is the temperate man. And I am that man. Today.

Hungover, in the most beautiful way.

In case I never say it in the right way: Good show. Thank you, Jen. For everything.

The good times are killing me. Though if they were not, would they really be the good times? I believe that answer to that question will echo into eternity and that echo will sound as loud as the original utterance. And that word would be, "No!"

I don't know why I'm drunk now, or why there's no milk left, or why I'm really missing Chris at this moment. But I could take a guess

I hate the crazy mouse disease.

Bar Night cannot be stopped. State lines be damned.

So while it is true I may not be a morning person, I am a creature of nessisity (the night). Which, of course, means that if I have an early call, I get my calling ass up and I do it.

As if I didn't already know, but I'm re-learning why designers need electricians. It's really easy to start compromising your design if you're always the one on the ladder.

In Ohio. For the week. Lighting me some senior research up in here. Funny, go into another space to find shit is all fucked up. I guess it doesn't matter where you go, mediocrity and incompetence reign.

Happy Birthday, Chris Wright!

Work like this just sucks the life right out of you.

Today is one of those days I think would have been better spent playing Magic with friends.

I love Maxim for all the wrong reasons. Luckily, though, there are no right ones.

Happy Birthday, Laura Tennal!

I am engaging in the time-honored tradition of wearing the same damn thing day after day.

Happy Birthday, Todd Presson!

As my immune system deteriorates, the symptoms I experience increase. As I feel worse I start to realize how good I really did feel. (none of my life is really as dramatic as all that, it’s just that my vocabulary has outdistanced my reality)

And I don't understand why I draft all day. It rips my life away but it's a great escape.

SwornAbsent: and then I said, "what about the middle ground?", and the HE said "what about it?"
SwornAbsent: the end

Really, it only took one day.

Happy Birthday, Brad Norris!

Happy Birthday, Katie Jean!

In like a lamb. Is that March?

Not everyone is Irish. I know it might be hard to believe, but it's true non-the-less. And, like I've been saying for a while, most people I know are American. I only know a handful that have even been to Ireland. But, really, that's beside the point. The point is you can't blame your heritage for you own bad behavior. That is a responsibility you must shoulder yourself.

I cannot excuse this. And, in my shame, I am sharing it publicly:

There are places were I would think it'd be good for somethings. Like if I wanted to see an improv show at any time of the day, I think Chicago would be the best place. However, if I have a flat tire, I think the best place would be centeral Iowa.

I am changing everything. I am changing it for you.

I know by the very nature of asking this it makes it kind of silly, but still. I'm thinking about resurrection. I mean, it makes a lot of since if someone has been shot (or, to be more medieval, run through). Poof, a bit of magic and good as new. But what if they've been blown up? What if I were to try and resurrect William Wallace, I mean they cut him apart and put parts of him all over the damn place. Would I be magic-ing them back together? Would I be taking j-random matter from wherever and animating it? I mean, all of the cells in our body cycle in seven years. So the person I am today is not the person I was on this day in 1999 (even though I am still partying like it). And, speaking of Palahniuk, not that anyone would really ever want to do this, but what if I'm resurrecting animals? What if I'm resurrecting a side of beef into a cow? What if other pieces of that cow have already been cooked and ate and become a part of someone else, am I suddenly taking the pieces out of that person? Because I'm leaning towards yes. I'm going to go with Einstein here and say that matter cannot be created nor destroyed, and I don't care if we're playing god and animating inanimate material, we still can't just pull this material out of our butts. So it's coming from somewhere. Then again, we are playing god, and God did make Adam from the dust of the ground. So, perhaps, this is how it gets done.

It's amazing how easy it is to like people that like you. Also, how much you can still smell like smoking the following morning.

Happy Birthday, Kathy Briggs!

You're a little slow on the uptake today. You ever get the impression that none of it really matters? (none of what?) It. All of it. (very, very rarely) I don't know. Just struck me all of a sudden. Thinking about that joke I just made. The sex having. And having. And having. And the act itself. Which is really just a repepition. (right) And then I started thinking about the work I do. And how the best jobs in my field are doing the same thing over and over again. And even to a lesser extent, lighting one show to the next is a process of repetition. In fact I count on that repeition to make the next job always easier than the last. Eventually someone cums and you stop having sex. (right) And eventually someone dies and you stop getting up in the morning. (sure) And I had just been reading this poem about Jesus and the second coming. (you are awful depressing today) I don't feel really depressed about this, though. This isn't an emo thought. A 'there is no gravity' a 'the world just sucks' thought. But I do feel that we should not be afraid to ask tough questions. Really, I think what it comes down to, is what I think it's come down to is the same sort of thing I always say. And that is life is what you make of it. The repepition changes only when you say that it does. Means this today and that tomorrow. Because you will it. (i think life is what you make of it) I think I should make a pie. Unfortunatly, I don't have any of the ingredents about. This is what I have made of my life.

And it might just be because I'm sick, but sometimes I wonder how I have any friends at all.

My mother just sent me this (if you can believe it):

Yeah, I remember the guy you almost had sex with. I also remember the guy you did have sex with. Goddamn, who am I?

At least thus far I've managed to be sick at what could be considered 'oppertune' times.

I'm reading all of your books so that I can know you better. Is that weird?

Fuck you AutoCAD fuckers.

I was just about to have sex, but I feel asleep instead.

Had a dream last night that Laura was driving to Florida. To visit some guy named ... something. The name slips my mind. I had been hoping to go with her, but, in typical Laura fashion, she had been less than firm about her desires.

I just finished Chuck Palahniuk's Lullaby and I have to say my feelings are mixed. I think it was amazingly well written, but every time I thought I had figured out what the focus was, what the hell was going on, it turns out I didn't. I had no idea, no clue. No anything. I tore though it though, it grabed in the the sort of way, when you're cold and the fire hurts, but not enough to make you pull your hand back. Well it was that way, the not knowing but the pressing on. Who cares where I'm going, I'll figure it out when I get there.

I know this might be an awful thing to say, but ... I think you might be able to live so simply by simply doing less. Though, when I say it that way it doesn't sound so bad.

Do you want to stop for a moment?
We can stop
And I want to say it out loud
And I want to mean it right now

The heater in my room clicks when it turns on. The clicking reminds me of the Studio Spot 575s that we're using at this damned ballroom. This is the sort of thing that will keep you up at night.

So I came all this way just to run house lights.

Go Steelers!

If I'm going to break everything, at least I'd like to do it in style.

I fought the Hog, and the Hog won.

Going to sleep when you're almost sick is such sweet sorrow. Because, of course, you're tired. You need the rest. But, you feel okay. Your body is weary but otherwise good. You could easly wake up with a throat rawer than the XXX I could have ordered in my hotel last night, and a body full of aches that have nothing to do with work that you've done.

It's interesting as I look back at this, my little blog here, and I find missing dates. I think to myself, "It's not so hard, is it? To find just one interesting thing to say a day." I'm carving a statue out of dust here anyway, building my house on sand. I know it's not going to last, and I know it'l fall down sooner or later. You'd think that knowledge would free me.

I totally just cut myself while shaving.

Look out, Detroit Motor City, I got up way too early in the morning.

Dreaming last night. On some kind of call. Not an electrics call, but the same sort of call group mentality, the short-term co-workers. I think I'm in an old, old, old library. Vaulted ceiling, stone pillars, that sort of thing. And, somehow, there's this upper class fellow on the call. And he takes issue with me. Rather, has taken issue with me previously. Over a woman (of course). And so, before lunch, we're dueling. With rapiers. That aren't really rapiers at all. I don't know. I'm kind of out classed. He has training and skills and sword play instructors. I have a rather short life of trying to live by my wits. The thing about living by your wits and not by some crazy system of honor is that you try to avoid getting into fights where people are trying to kill you. But none the less, there I found myself. And his spins and cuts and thrusts and me ducking and running as best as I can. I remember I have a cheering section, of one guy. He keeps telling me to stick in there, kill the mother fucker. So, I'm trying, I guess. With one mighty thrust I totally miss him. But I gain some confidence, and I'm in the fight. And we're steel on steel all the way. And then it's lunch time. That's the thing about calls like this, you don't fuck with lunch. We drop our weapons, we're out the door. I have meeting with Margaret over lunch, to whom I explain the position I'm in. She expresses her sympathy and tells me rather seriously not to get myself killed. So I return from lunch to find that our swords have been damaged enough that we can't continue. I'm not sure what the story is, other than they're kind of bent some how (I don't know shit about swords IRL). So upper class boy is moping, but I'm okay with it. I don't really want to kill him, I sure as shit don't want to get killed myself. I'd like to think that this girl likes me, even though I don't have money or power or good looks or any of the shit that he has (what a dreamer, get it?). So we get back to work. My cheering section totally not on this call, just some guy that wanted to see the underdog win. So pretty much everyone I'm working with would just rather I had been killed before lunch. It's not the best working environment. So I think I'm talking to a librarian during a ten and someone comes up behind me, taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, it's this girl. She hands me a new rapier. Great. She's still holding one. d00d man is no where to be seen. I ask her what's going on. She says that she didn't like us fighting over her (great) and she's now the championing for this other fellow. What? I guess I'm a new age modern man, where women can fight for men. But I'm not in the position in which I can't turn away, 'cause she'll kill me (such are the rules of the game) or I fight and die, or I fight and win, killing this person I care about in the place of someone I don't really like. What the hell? And I wake up. Beautiful girl next to me. Who I never had to kill someone over, but sure had my fair share of fights.

It's kinda weird (in its own way) to watch everyone leave and know you have no where to go yourself.

Normal, what?

I don't really try to push buttons, Katie. I do my best to listen and ask insightful and interested questions. Because I am interested. And, really, I think a lot of people in this world aren't. And it's easy to have psudo-communication. I don't pussy-foot around. Friendship isn't all roses and rainbows. It's dirty and it's in your face. It's insulting and angry and spit and teeth and blood. And I'm okay with that.

I guess I'm trying to tell you that I consider you a friend. And I'm sorry.

The White Stick: Do you think that your mother should get drunk on Friday night for her birthday?
princesspuffin2: yes

Internet better than ever.
EDIT: Bullshit.

Now I'm going to say that I enjoy the colloquial vocabulary differences when we talk about sex. The difference, for instance, between making love and fucking. Screwing, balling and so on. They help clarify what one is speaking of, allow precision in language and therefore allow for better and clearer communication. But the problem, of course, is the initial implication. The mixture of the ideas between sex and love. You (and in this case, when I say you I really mean me) spend so much time disassociating this association. You don't want sex to equal love, in fact, you don't want to two ideas to cross. You want to be free to love people you don't fuck and fuck people you don't love. And, for the most part, it works. Wonderfully. When, all of a sudden, you let the boundary slip. You stop fucking someone. You start making love with them. And it feels good. Of course it feels good. Not only is it sex, but it's socially approved (in a limited fashion). Plus you get to mix all of these emotions that you no longer have to find words for, wrap them up in a condom, and stick them right inside her. And what beautiful imagery you produce. They're like strong magnets, these ideas. This person, this action, this feeling. Once they come together, you can't take them apart. Instead you take yourself apart.

Wait, wait, wait, so what you're telling me is that a 96 isn't good enough?

Drinking and football. What could be better? Oh, oh, I know, I know. Drinking and gaming.

It just goes to show you that I'm a fucking little bitch.

Two words: Finger Guns.

So I had me this dream last night. And I remembered a lot more about it in the show this morning. I slept on the couch, too. Remember waking up, not really ready to get up, falling back asleep, falling back into it. But is was a sort of 1984 / Feaherienheit 451 sort of event. Which is odd, I think, that I can just throw those words out, those books out, and it means something. It implies something. Some sort of setting. Events. But I'm engaging in some free-thinking type activities. Not sure what. Nothing revolutionary, nothing violent. And I'm married, somehow, to someone. And I think she turned me in. To whom I'm not sure. Them, I suppose. So I try to get in touch with her. Succede. We're talking. She totally did it. Turned me in. Whatever, though, don't really feel anything. Don't owe her anything now. Wanted to know for sure, wanted to know if I did owe her, if she was a partner or just one of them. So I'm off. I'm hitching serious hobo style. I've got me a sheet tied around a stick and a thumb out in the air. Suddenly, quickly, it dawns on me. No one hitchhikes. More free-thinking behavior. Shit. I hail a cab. Across the street (which looked like a freeway). It stops and I bust into serious Frogger traffic dodging mode. And I see this cop car, stop. See me. Going the wrong way, trying to make the turn. "Out of town," I tell the cabbie. And we're off. Somehow in this opressive society they can't get their shit together enough to stop a cab, with a driver that's going to comply and a passanger that has no choice. But they don't, and I'm out. I say with a friend for a while. Some friend willing to put me up. I don't leave the house, he brings food home. I think he has a wife, I don't remember seeing her, though. Maybe a roommate. I think there's someone else. That my mere presence is endangering. Eventually (quickly, like dreams go) the jig is up. They're coming, we know they're coming. They're on the TV. Good plan. So I'm packing, packing more this time, same sheet and stick, but now with a backpack. I pause, I stop to wonder, "Why me?" Not only why are they after me, which seems obvious enough, but why would this friend go so far out of his way to help me. To feed me for so long, put me up, and now nail a 2x4 to his door. I'm no hero. And I don't know. And I'm out the back door. Running, I know this time, to my doom. But lo, what do we have here? An old Cadillac? Friends of my frind? Two of them. One of which I know? I'm going down the fire escape, riding the ladder as the rust screams, as I scream. Freedom, freedom (from the grave, at least). "Hello lads," I say as I climb into the back seat. And we're off. Driving like mad, but not nearly fast enough. And it is here, as we turn onto the main drag, trying to make good our esacpe, that I awake.

The Goblins are back, baby.

Merry Christmas, Junior. Merry Christmas.

Junie B Jersey: chicago has a football team ;-)

Bought me an xbox today. Who knew?

Happy Birthday, Aaron Ritter!

Go Steelers! Go Bears!

I woke up at two o'clock this afternoon. As if there was anything clearer I could say about DeKalb.

That's right. I was playing me some Magic. Good game, Matt Buckles, good game.

Most people never get to say goodbye.

Happy Birthday, Bret Swanson!

Still no internet. Fuckers.

Despit this, still don't feel top of the morning this afternoon.

So first I had me the stomach flu, which became kidney stones, which later turned into yellow fever. And now has retreated into the traditional winter stuffy nose.

Any moment now, that door will open. And she will walk through it.

Thank you, Kristin, for taking care of me tonight.

Wake up, time to face the real world again. Somethings need to be broken in, and somethings just need to be broken.

So when it comes right down to it, I'm going to have to go with a plain narrative when I go into this past new years. I am sorry. The original plan went something like this: The Celtic Crown was going to be having a $35 open bar deal from 9-midnight. So go there. Drop the thirty five bucks and drink ourselves silly. Post silly drinking make our way back to my place (not hard) and keep drinking until we pass out. I'm not sure who all was involved in this plan. I know it was Brad's plan. I also know that Brad somehow got himself involved in this thing going on in Evanston. And that he wasn't going to be there until like quarter till midnight. Despite this, the plan was moving on. Plans have this way of taking on a life of their own. Mr. Bret Swanson and I do a bit of scouting. We're under the impression that getting in is a no-go. At this time Emily Jane, KP Kickin' it Old Skool and the Big Gay are waiting for us at my place. We decide the Celtic Crown is out. We call Laura and Katie and Shelley (who are in transit) and inform them. All is good, we're looking for Plan B when Katie says here brother is in the Celtic Crown. Well, alright. Kick it. Let's go. Emily heads to Drew's. Good plan. We go to the bar. No dice. It's cold. I bring back some drinks while we stand outside. I call Kristin, "Can we crash your party?" We're thinking about leaving. About doing god knows what. About pissing on the bar and then burning it down. I say fuck shoes. Kristin calls back. "Yes, you can crash my party. Asshole." Sweet. We're off to the Lake Shore Theatre. We're on the train. We're doing the wave. "Sox win! Sox win!" We hit the theatre. I drop about a hundred bucks in the tip jar. We drink like fish. Bret and I play Mrs. Pac Man on the projector. Citty chat. Midnight approaching. I get a big of champagne. I grab Laura by the wrist. I take her to the stage. We hear counting. Three. Two. One. I kiss her center stage center. She kisses me back. Happy new year. I kiss Kristin. I kiss KP. I do not kiss the Big Gay. I kiss Bret. I tell him I love him. Awkward. Emily shows up. We get into a fist fight (she picked it). She wins (for the most part). We motivate. Head to Katie and Laura's. Arrive. Full on house party. Who would have thunk it? Richard Palmer? What the shit? Awesome. How are you? Got a job in Connecticut? Nice. More party. No more drinking. Drunk enough. Put Emily Jane to bed. Throw out some guy. I'll play you at Madden. You can be whatever team you want. I say fuck Madden. Get out. End up playing spin the bottle (!). End up feeling sick, too much to drink, too much watching my girlfriend kiss other people. Sleep on Katie's floor. Laura joins me shortly, "The game wasn't fun after you left." Exactly the right thing to say. I go to sleep cuddled up. I wake up in the morning afternoon, Bret is off to Jewel for pancakes. Talk to Monica and Chris and some of the other people there. Bret comes back hours later. Makes pancakes. They are good. Leave Katie's. Take Emily to the train. Meet up with Bret and KP. Watch Cowboy Bebop: The Movie. Nap. Have dinner at Laura's place of work. Bret takes the longest shower ever. Get there late. Have a good time. Come home. Feel at peace. Feel friendly. Good in that soft sort of way.

It's an amazing thing to wake up in the middle of the world and have to use the bathroom.

Yes, I did in fact just pour a bit of vodka on some mold growing in my house in an attempt to kill it. Happy new year, mom, you done good.

It's like one of those days, you know? One of those days when an old friend that now lives in a warm clime comes to your place and gets locked out in the 'freezing' rain. You're hung over as shit, so you go to the diner and get some steak and eggs (she orders pancakes). You talk about sex. Then you talk about old times. And new times. And talk. And talk. And the talking wonders off; fading peaceably to silence. The silence is filled with all of the things that can never be said. Nap a bit, talk a bit more, make bad food for lunch. The day passes slowly, beautifully, uneventfully. When it comes time to interact with other human beings it's hard to justify, "We didn't do anything today." When St. Peter asks you about it at the Pearly Gates I'll have to say, "Pete, I took one for me."