O;j;O

i'm on my buddy handlebars's couch after work, watching blue planet and listening to him snore on the floor. i'll be sleeping here tonight under a blanket with a tiger on it. earlier i broke up a chick fight, had beer thrown and spit in my face, and couldn't manage to drink more than a sip of a beer. but, in an interesting upside, i listened to some just twenty-one dudes talk about the band they're starting and it made me feel good about myself.

i am by no means a musician. i have never claimed to be and have actively denied it. this is not being humble. there is not a single instrument in the world out of which i can make music. i've been known to, sometimes, make some good noises on my computer, but beyond that, nothin. (which reminds me, i want to make music that kills people: http://www.guardian.co.uk/medicine/story/0,,2154289,00.html )

right, so, the young gentleman were discussing what they wanted the band to sound like. they had jammed, let's say, twice, and were ready to make some decisions. and all they talked about were other bands. i can't remember any of them. i wish i could say they brought up silverchair, but it was mostly respectable music, so i forgot.

it's just never really made sense to me to actually want to sound/look/be like my heroes. they're my heroes, not me. and the thing that makes them awesome enough to be heroes? (or, at least, my concept of heroes.) it's that they did their own thing. that's what made them important in the first fucking place. it someone's already done it, why the fuck do you want to?

this, i think, also relates to my confusion about who opens diners.

right, well, i've already broken my promise to myself about turning this blog into a diary of any sort. when i see this tomorrow (i check my blog like some sort of wierdo. really. totally.) i'll probably take it down, so read it while you can.

oh, and the subject of this is an elephant.

i made a thing.

here's some pictures john strange took of the thing i made.

.,_,.

the title of this entry is a tarantula, ya dig?

i've been thinking about my growing anti-capitalist leanings of late. not to say i'm gonna turn into a dumpster-diving freegan, i'm no total asshole, and i'm not beginning a career as a +5 dexterity thief. i just want another way. i would rather not interact with money. or work. the real problem isn't me. i would stop making money and let my life go to shit if their weren't people who would be sad about it. and that maybe one day some girl will let me grow some smaller me's in her belly, and if that time comes how am i gonna feed, clothe, and educate those two foot piles of hair? but anytime i can get around the normal systems of money, i'm pleased. anytime those in power are willing to circumvent business as government. awesome. i would be a communist if i wasn't such a pussy.

i've also been amazed how how marijuana brings out all my worst qualities and yet i love it so. just reread this entry with that in mind.

haven't been home or near a computer in days. things are good. all in all pretty awesome.

more stupid shit soon.

it's 7/7/7.
you know what that means.
that's right.
the bevel is gonna get you.

watch out.

(this morning i woke up to what i can only assume was a crazy person outside. he was yelling about the end of the world. it's gonna be a weird day.)

listening to "A Collection of Classic Mutants" a fake comp of Zappa-y post punk by Morgan Fisher. it's pretty incredible.

the dragon hadn't slept in years. he'd developed quite a taste for amphetamines sometime in the sixties. people were born, lived their lives, and died, all in one long day to the dragon. he faded in and out of the world, remembering bits. he didn't know when he had moved to this house. or when he'd gotten half his tattoos and most of his scars. sometimes he would look at the woman next to him and realize he didn't know her name, a lot of those times they were wearing matching wedding bands.
this particular morning he was alone.
he shook a little, the ash falling off his cigarette. he walked out of the bedroom. none of the people who were normally around his house were anywhere to be found. he sliced himself a line and looked at it.
"where are my friends?" he said.
"you don't have any." the line responded.
"where did they go?"
"away. out. gone."
"but why?"
"who knows? they were assholes." the line looked apologetically at him. "i'm still here."
the dragon tried to take comfort in this, but something troubled him.

I'm locked out of my house, so I watched Godzilla vs. Megalon. Sort of. Mostly I slept on a couch. But, damn, the score for that movie is awesome.

enjoy.

happy holiday. fuck you.

so, I'm listening to Popular Science's "Design for Living" which came out in this fine country the year I was born. And I'm feeling patriotic. Because despite it's problems, I think our odd perverted naiveté is charming in some ways. I think that going blindly forward is, in some ways, commendable. Not to say we aren't all fucking morons. But, hey, yeah, at least American punk was better than British punk. Happy Fourth of July.

Oh yeah, I have a blog now.

about a girl.

         I met her just after I'd moved in with the Hulk. It was a pretty good place to live, really big room, though having to carry that giant key wasn't awesome. And sometimes I had to hide in my room if he had one of his moods, but otherwise: a good place to live.
         She had also just gotten out of college, but somewhere else, I forget where. She said she wanted to be an actress. I wanted to continue my work in the sciences. It took me almost a year to ask her out, and by then all my hair had fallen out. I was in the lab too much, the chemicals were getting to me.
         Our first date was magical, we saw that stage production of Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain's Please Kill Me. Shia LeBeouf was surprisingly good as young Richard Hell. At intermission, which was awkwardly placed just after the Dead Boys started playing in New York, she kissed me. Later, she told me it was because I laughed at the right moments. I was enchanted.
         We'd been going out a couple months by the time the first people started calling me "mad". She told me to ignore them. The Hulk had turned gray and had started bringing all kinds of degenerates around, so I spent most of my time at her place. Her room mates were all pot heads, so specific details of that time are a little cloudy. I was mostly opposed to drugs, knowing my mind was better used for more important things, but I was in love, and I wanted to impress her.
         Those were maybe my happiest days. Long hours in the lab, and nights with her. We talked about everything. Lived life as a unit. Spent all our free time together. Her acting career wasn't working out, but she seemed to like being a waitress.
         A week after our one-year anniversary, that bastard, Brian Dewsnap, led a group inquiry into my research and got my funding removed. That son of a bitch was just jealous! What was I doing that was so wrong? No one was gonna miss those kids!
     I was really depressed for a little while. She tried whatever she could to console me, but I spent a lot of time alone. She came over when the Hulk was out of town to make me dinner. I remember her, looking so beautiful, standing on the ladder we had to use the counter, saying "Why don't you just test the stuff on your self?"
         I know now that it wasn't her fault. I've forgiven her. She couldn't have known what would happen. I was the scientist, not her. It was wrong of me to do that to her, but when those things started happening to me, what was I gonna do? Blame myself? I mean, I lived with the Hulk, I'd already seen where that road leads. But, ever since her, the only women who ever fall in love with me are either mind-controlled, which I guess I don't mind, or homicidal, which gets tiring real fast.
         I guess I just miss her. I'm sure I still have a hairbrush or something of hers somewhere. Is it wrong to clone the girl you murdered in a blind rage after turning yourself into more monster than man?