Okay, so covers of Decemberists songs in disco style, and we’d call ourselves the Discocemberists.
Oh, wait, they did that themselves with “The Perfect Crime.”
Sigh. I just wanted to say “Discocemberists” because their name lends itself so very well to puns.
I had a physics “test” today. It was multiple choice and featured questions like “what is the bright thing in the sky that shines a light on the world?” The answer, of course, is my pants, in all their glory. My pants make the grass green and the sky blue. Hooray!
I bookended my test with visits to the Whole Music Club in the basement of Coffman, because they have cold press coffee and a supply of Radio K DJs, some of whom are jerks for not returning phone calls, but this time they actually played my request. I often feel like a dork for hanging out, but it’s a chance for me to dance and stand next to the “cool table.” Paul (not Armstrong, but the other Paul — and I don’t mean new Paul, whose name is actually Kamran, but rather, Paul Lindquist, who actually no longer sports the black rimmed emo glasses that classed him right alongside Zach, Dave, and myself in the “trendy glasses” camp — wait, doesn’t original Paul have some emo glasses without lenses? I think that he does, so, at one point there were two Pauls in the “hot glasses” camp, so, uh, where was I before this long aside that rambled all over the damn place?) hinted that maybe, just maybe, I should consider volunteering at Radio K, which, although technically the most appealing thing in the universe that I can do with my clothes on, is probably not in the cards because I am not volunteering for anything. I declared a moratorium in 2002 or 2003 so I could get my life together, and I don’t think that midway through college is quite the place for me to start “doing stuff” again.
I already shot five rolls of film for my project, but the prof said last night that I should abandon all hope — I mean — change my project from Minneapolis to self portraits. GREAT. Yes.
“You should be in every shot,” she suggested.
So, I could drag the tripod out again, set up the shot, click the shutter, run to place myself, rinse, repeat. Times two hundred. For all my recent vanity, I do not want to look at my damn self in photos!
I think that I missed my chance to swear in this post.
I’m going to crawl into bed soon, but I wanted to mention that while looking at my photos from the 2005 Gallery thing in New York, Sarah and I figured out that she was living one block away from my hotel during that trip. I had to go dateless to the banquet that year when I could have been putting the moves on her! One block!
In other news, holy shit. After years of playing close to the vest, pretty much everything is out in the open with Sarah. This is completely uncharted territory for me, so of course I am absolutely terrified. It’s awfully hard to pace the relationship given where I’m at emotionally, but I’m not scared of hard — especially when it involves a pretty girl. Especially if she’s bright, funny, and driven. Slow. Slow slow slow.
Slow.
Sarah got home from some sort of “family” thing today, supposedly in honor of some kind of “holiday,” so I took her to Punch, where we had a delicious pizza that wasn’t thoroughly cut and some artichoke dip that was burned on the top. Nonetheless, it was a good Date. I’d go back, but I would send back the dip to be remade, and the pizza to be recut.
“Make this pizza more emo so it can cut itself.”
Rumor has it that we might watch the Tuesday set of Law and Orders together, and Saturday there might be some sort of double date with the Keathlys. I fear that I will miss the Doomtree Blowout (2), but so be it.
Oh yeah, this morning I stepped on the scale to find myself down a pound from my lowest in 2005. Beer and pizza is the answer, I tell you.
I’m kind of torn between going to see Stranger Than Fiction at Wynnsong or Haley Bonar at the Varsity Theater. Decisions, decisions.
Today I convinced my mother that it would be a good idea to buy a cardigan for me. It’s very comfortable and makes me feel professorial. Thank you, Mom. This sweater will pretty much replace the black hoodie that I had been wearing with my black coat. I’m wearing it right now. Glorious.
I joked about not being able to afford my own shopping therapy, but it’s true.
If, by “soon,” I mean, uh, sometime in the future.
Jesse Mullan’s Starboy Action Comix Presents:
Starboy
In: “Any Crash You Can Walk Away From.”
Hellz yes.
Plus I have like 5000 robots to draw, but that’s another story altogether.
Today I made a roux and a green bean casserole to take over to my mom’s. I don’t think that I made enough roux — I should probably have made a double batch, given that I ended up making a half gallon of gravy. Of course, my mom had tossed the giblets because she thought that they were gross, but the gravy worked out okay anyway. This time I did not use too much black pepper.
I had to bug out early because I was feeling a little… I dunno. I could use some super fun party time tonight. Translate my heart into Japanese and back again: “Thousand being broken eyes overnight are not repaired.” It’s okay. I’m fine. That’s not as funny as “Macho Business Donkey Wrestler,” but we can’t ALL be News Radio. Oh, no we can’t.
I know that I had told myself that I was going to save my pinstriped black shirt for a hot date, but I needed extra propping up to make the casserole without freaking out while sweating the onions and mushrooms. I shaved, I looked great, but I couldn’t glue on my game face, no matter how good my grey corduroys look on me. Yes, I understand that marrying the pinstripes to the cords was asking for trouble, but Lisa gave the nod. Shit. I shoulda grabbed different pants.
Anyway, it was nice to see my extended family on my mom’s side. I put the turkey back in the oven right when it was time to be served because tearing off a leg revealed undercooked meat. Fucking great. Somewhere inside I was livid — partly at myself for not taking point on the bird. It turned out okay, the skin crisped up extra nice, but, you know, uh, shit. I’m gonna go watch some Law and Order.
If you like scratchin’ and hip hop and shit like that, yo, you should motherfucking check out the Gray Kid’s weird little online EP thing: “The Pilgrimage: Y’All Some Turkeys.”
Aw shit, motherfuckers, just listen to this fucking shit drop. That’s some fucked up SID chip action:
I don’t think that I can possibly ever swear enough.
I think that I could take down a two and a half cases of Summit by myself no problem.
But can I do it before the end of Law and Order?
Maybe I should have a party.
Oh yeah, Stan and I went to see Borat tonight. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, even though the New York scenes brought back fond memories that made me all sad. Damn you for pinching a loaf in a planter, Sasha Baron Cohen! DAMN YOU!
Let’s see what I’m thankful for this year:
1) Flying a giant peach across the ocean
2) Landing on top of the tallest building in the world
Oh, wait, no, that’s James and the Giant Peach, which Noah is watching while I “babysit” him, for sufficiently lazy definitions of “babysitting.”
I could make a list of all sorts of things for which I am grateful, or the people who are close to my heart, but I have to go break the television so that I don’t have to listen to Randy Newman yowl like a horny cat with a speech impediment.
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