What was that Cold War idea, If they have five, we should have 10. And all anyone would need is one. How many do we have? How many do they have? Do they really think they can stop them? Maybe if we unclench a fist, I think, but I'm idealistic.

Gregory, my brother, has been deployed to Japan. He's a marine and he's crazy. For a while they wouldn't tell him when he'd be deployed. But now he's there with geishas. Here's an e-message he sent from the land of the rising sun.

Konnichiwa Fuck Face
I'm in Japan and everything is crazy. Up is down, left is right, signs are written in gibberish, and hamburgers eat people. And I managed to find about 15 casinos but for the life of me I can't gamble at any of them. Their system is too complicated. But the good news is that they are all pachinko machines like that thing we had when we were little. so I'm sure that when i do figure out how to exchange money for tokens then I will be in business. Have fun in your non foreign contry.

Half

... and just for fun, here's his sidebusiness.

Sentimental Sunday

Television can fuck off. I'm quitting while I can.

Working at Kohl's is going to be fine. Already, the people I'm working with are proving to be eclectic, attractive and formidable; good people.

I have Cross-Cultural Journalism at 8 a.m. with a woman from my past. We had a sorta public fallout. On Monday, we spoke at length for the first time since we had split. It was a little surreal, but good; a meeting so cinematic it seemed cut right out from a drama. I actually got to ask her what she saw in the other man, as well as other questions that'd swelled and deflated in importance since the time so long ago. Not that the answers mean anything now, but for nostalgia sake it was a fine meeting.

And today, I have lots to read and lots to do; I can't stop thinking about the author of a note I received. "My Secret Admirer" she said she was. I wonder what her lips look like and if I'd kiss them for hours.

Last week, a woman came into Eastgate.
It was slow. I was reading my book in the silence at my post behind the register. The doorbell jangled metal and she glided in. It was her hair I noticed first; long wavy strands of shimmering brown tendrils reflected spectrums in the dull fluorescent light out of nowhere. She turned her head slightly, so I could see her. She paralyzed me. My right arm's elbow lifted from the counter while my palm and fingers remained on my chin; I raised my head and delivered, "Howdy," like a teenager.
At an easy pace, she eyed the bottles of wine on display and took her time with them. I pretended not to look over to her or glance in the shoplifting mirrors. I quickly justified my gawking. I was checking for shoplifting and trying to guess her age, which looked to me questionable to purchase what she was perusing. She had youthful cloths on; a fittingm, brown corduroy jacket and slim denim jeans with a pair of sensible, yet stylish, boots.
Then she picked up a bottle and started toward me. My eyes dove nervously back into Yossarian and his literary troubles.
"Is this all for you," I stated. It's automatic. She smiled and nodded, and that's when I saw her eyes. Blue and prysmatic [Beyonce], I guessed her age from her eyes as about 22, 23.
"Can I see your ID?" I try to sound very authoritative as I say it, but I might've tried something else that time.
She handed it over and smiled at me again, this time with some kind of desirable glee that didn't look like she was coming on to me, but that she liked me all the same.

And what do you know, 1970. MY GOD! There are scores and sectors of the human female population that aren't nearly as drop-dead gorgeous as she; scores that range from 18 on. Age can twist people into gnarled fenceposts or fortify people into ripe trees. I worked with a 67-year-old man who, for all appearances, is in the prime of his life. And she certainly looked primed and fit. Stunningly fit. So what's the fucking secret?! I think I know, but only time will tell.

First off, I absolutely hate wearing a turtleneck. When I finally made it home I pulled that sucker off my neck and instinctually thought out loud, "Freedom." This brings up an old concept: Clothes are confining. We'd all look and feel much better without them. ... Well, some of us anyhow.

I'm an avid salesman of the plasma generated naturally within my body. Today, the lady that stuck me was UuuuuugLy! She jammed the needle into my arm causing it to infiltrate the other side. I've a swollen and tender right arm. Worst of all, I didn't get paid! Fuckin needles.

I first noticed the tree in August. It's growing from a railroad tie, one of many ties that comprise a wall along the sidewalk on the north side of my apartment. It's roots are thriving in a place it should not be.
The tree and I have that in common.

Sentimental Sunday

To all reading that came to Lola's 21st birthday party, she, Brian and I would like to thank you; and we hope you all had a good time. To Mr. Rosche, you left your witch hat; to Ms. Wire, you left your gardener's hat; and to Ms. Creamer, you left your redolent scarf and gloves. And to the fuck that ran off with my fedora, you'd better hope I never catch up to you. I'm looking, and when I find you I will have my druthers, and I can promise you a day of reckoning that you will not live long enough to never forget.

I never heard anyone refer to a deity as a deity with a lowercase first character. I've been reading up on graphology. From what I've found short, terse notes (like grocery lists, notes to oneself, "back in five" sort of notes) tend to have all lowercase characters [or all capitals]. Thus anyone with a favorite deity that has a lowercase first character must be plowing right through life like a note with insurance information left on a parked and mangled car. I don't, however, know what it is to have a god. Don't misunderstand, I've got a little something. If anything, it's probably grammatically incorrect.

Lots happened since last Sentimental Sunday. All of it's pointless -- that is to say, all of it has less of a point than the normal garbage. I've a metaphor, ... sort of.

The minor third is the most widely performed interval in the human vocabulary. You! Make a noise. Hum a single note. Now pick a note that is slightly higher. If you followed these instructions the second note is likely higher than the first by a minor third. This interval is equal to 1 1/2 steps, and if a chord were built off it, it'd be a minor chord. It's the interval you heard on the grade-school playground "na na, na na, naaa naaa."(if you're savvy)
The major third is equal to 2 steps above the first note. Thus, these intervals are at the heart of tertian harmony.
NOW. Songs written in a major key are decidedly happier. This interval is not as sharp; it is not as instinctual as the minor variety. Songs written in a minor key are decidedly sadder. Now, though there exists this rift, really really tragic songs are written in major -- disasterous, heart-rending songs.
Of course music is a gamut encompassing all. I have just found it kind of interesting that songs in a major key, even (especially) without words, can evoke pop-happy melodies and textures that you'd hear in your mind as you were driving off a cliff to your suicide or something. I don't believe anything written in a minor key can come close to the tragedy of what a major key can accomplish.
Most noted to me is that the major interval is not the one that comes naturally to people. It's not logical to me that the major covers a wider range of emotions that the minor. Now of course songs all have both major an minor chords. That's not the point. All the chords in the song, if it's a good song, work toward a single emotion. In my mind (and I'm probably the only one that's still following this dribble) people must go out of their way with their music to experience the depths of their emotions -- like going out of the way to make the major third.
My oldest friend is a math nut. I'm a music nut. We once spoke of the fully diminished chord. This chord is made up of nothing but minor thirds. We agreed that it's the most mathematically perfect chord. It divides the octave into fourths, there are only four of them, and all pitches in the chord lead to the key of the song. The chord is also the harshest thing anyone can hear in tonality.

So in life, the most natural thing is the harshest. Eventually every one of us will resolve to the key once more and some will be forced to evoke emotions never contemplated before. Some can ride the fence and maintain with either major or minor, but they will consequently have less interesting songs. Music is built of of harsh dissonance and soothing consonance. Music is tragic, happy, soulful, sexual, painful, etc. There's so much out there that can be done; that has yet to be done.

As for quartal harmony, go fuck yourself.

*I almost left out the fact that some people are perfectly happy with their 3-chord lives, minimalist relationships and straightforward place in the world. Some people don't need to be "interesting" in order to be musically accepted. It's all relative; it's your funeral.*

Man, my place smells like a freshly opened beer. Not any beer, that fucking Rolling Rock shit smells of piss right when you crack one open. I don't think, however, anyone brought Rolling Rock to the pad last night. So ipso facto, several spilled alcoholic drinks = a collective beerpiss smell.

I totally forgot that I had Communications Law at 11 a.m. today. I mistook the time for 12 p.m. This has never happened to me before. I've always arrived everywhere without fail and said "punctuality is a virtue of the bored." Being perpetually bored, accidentally skipping class is a first.

In a dream, during the three hours of sleep last night, I jumped the fence to get to my car. This time the fence, house walls, even the ground shook and crumbled. Luckily, as per usual, I found solid ground next to a palm tree north of my apartment. Vivid!

Where I'm from items like this are status-quo. These caveats of midwestern teenage living are forcefed to guitarists, along with Cobain. Some of these dogmas I wish would die -- about 80 to 95 percent of them. Nevertheless, it's a part of who I am. However, I wash my own brain.

2 for Tuesday

I'm in love! Her name is Theresa Lopez-Fitzgerald and she lives in Harmony, USA. I know, I know. Long-distance things don't last. Also, she's actually going after this other guy, Ethan. But when she's rebuffed, I'll be there. I'm convinced when I finally introduce myself we'll live happily ever after.

I've been sitting alone complacent/ waiting to give gifts past receiving. In your house no longer vacant/ you'll come to me I am believing. I would not compromise discretion/ soon tomorrow is today. I want the touch in your possession/ you do what you do, let's stay and let's play.

Often noted in my mind, I'm a collector of useless information. I know about music theory, growing grass, writing songs, and Monday I checked out graphology and physiognomy books to add to the list. However, as per usual, I still found myself playing guitar over studying subjects I'm interested in.

Today, a nurse watched me as I faced away from her and urinated into a cup. When I turned around her burly arms were crossed and her in-need-of-electrolysis face was motionless and inquiring. Maybe my hippie hair made her druggie-sense flare up. Nevertheless, she took my urine with a smile.

Oh No! Puckett's is going out of business! Does anyone care? Probably, if they can still afford it even after the 50 percent reduction. A woman in the store said to me, "You look like you can afford it." At least I look fiscally sound, which's all that matters. Right?

Having viewed the television program "The Book of Daniel", a highly anticipated and commercialized Friday-night affair, I must say I found it funny and pleasing to my God-bone. I identify with Daniel mostly because he likes to fuck. I sure hope my radical Christian friends don't spoil this for me.

I wonder which is the better accomplishment: lifting a refrigerator or going a month without any cigarettes. I did both today. That's right, refrigerator, right over my head! ... Actually is was on a dolly. It's true about the tobacco though. Who knew I'd actually do it. Almost 50 ... and there.

I just realized that I can play guitar for five hours; all original songs without repeating. At first, I was annoyed that I'd awoke at 5:30 a.m. But it's been so long since I've actually thought about or played some of them. Some're years old; it makes me feel happy/nostalgic.

I need a haircut. Unfortunately, I don't have enough money to pay for water, much less a haircut. But, I need the haircut to look less questionable to potential employers; who would hire me and give me a paycheck to spend on a haircut. Ironically, I'm reading Catch-22 right now.

Sentimental Sunday

Happy New Year everyone.

Here's a Christmas story. It regards the pet of Mr. Kravitz and Ms. Fretland. The pet is a dog named Jack. Mr. Kravitz doesn't yet know the whole story and might kill me when he reads this, so just keep this between us. OK? Right.

Mr. Kravitz recently began a jet-set vacation, which will lead him to London for a semester. On Tuesday of the week of Dec. 18, he asked me to take Jack from Mr. Wallstin's house to the pet kennel Pet Fair. He asked me to do this on Saturday, Dec. 24. I figured I could do him a favor before work that day, and before I left town for Christmas with the folks. It was simple on paper. What could possibly go wrong.

At about 12:30 p.m. on Saturday Mr. Kravitz called me up wanting to know how the move went. I hadn't done it yet because I had to do it before work at 2 p.m. "But Pet Fair closes at noon." Mr. Kravitz said. Well, that would've been nice to know. Mr. Wallstin did call me up to square out the details, and I did tell him I'd be at the place at around 10:30. So it's really nobody's fault but my own. Nevertheless, I haul ass over to Mr. Wallstin's place to retrieve Jack, who was hesitant to my presence immediately. I gave him a dog biscuit to show I'm not all bad. It didn't matter because as soon as I let him out of his 3- by 3- by 5-foot cage he ran all around the place in a mixture of fear and freedom. It was as if someone had been blowing a dog whistle. I, after a little patience, got him on the leash and headed over to Pet Fair.

I should mention Mr. Kravitz and I were in constant communication, and Jack was ever-wiry throughout the entire story.

Jack and I arrived at Pet Fair to find all the lights off and the doors locked; I'm left caring for a dog who is surprisingly a good vehicle passenger. Anyway, I headed over to some food store next door and talk with an older managerial fellow. He told me what Mr. Kravitz had said -- kennels are all booked up, no chance of finding one now on Christmas Eve. He and I began calling up a few people; I in the phonebook and he in his personal repertoire of acquaintances to see if there's anyone with keys to that fucking place, ... err, Pet Fair.

At this point I'm thinking I really fucked this one up. I had. Plan B was quickly drawn up and put into effect. I'd take care of Jack until around 4 p.m. At this time, hopefully, testing my immense luck, there would be some kind heart there to take this tiny little bolt of canine energy away from me.

So Jack and I headed back to my place. Right as I crossed Range Line going east on the Business Loop, my cell phone rang. It wasn't Mr. Kravitz this time, it was a veterinarian from some pet hospital -- the hospital I need to talk to.
"Hello, is this Phillip?"
"Yes, it's me,"
She began to say something, but I didn't quite get it because at that moment Jack vomited all over the passenger seat of my car.
"Oh fuck everything!" I shouted, completely forgetting I was on the phone with a potential savior whose number came up as anonymous on my cell phone ID.
She continued talking. I knew giving him that dog biscuit was a bad idea. Anyway, I swung into the empty lot of some store so I could clean it up a bit. It was quite disgusting. Luckily I had some old clothes in the back to clean it up with, but to get at the disgusting pile better I'd need to get on the passenger side. Now, when I opened the passenger door, I didn't expect Jack to just bolt out of the car. But he did. That wiry little fuck darted right out into the very busy Business Loop.
"Jack!" I yelled over and over while charging right after him. I should mention the veterinarian is still on the cell phone with me. "Jack, get back over here!"
It was stupid of me to chase right after him because he just kept running, causing cars to swerve and pass me with disapproving eyes. So there I was, chasing after a dog in heavy traffic that isn't mine with dog vomit in one hand and a veterinarian via cell phone in the other. After a long minute, he finally headed over to the grass on the side of the road and rolled over so I can scratch his stomach. The little fuck was having fun! Stupid dog.
"Sorry, I'm gonna have to call you back,"
Who knows what she was thinking. She'd heard everything, the cars and my girlish shrieks for that canine.

Oh, I forgot to mention, I've always hated the act of taking care dogs, cats, pets of any kind. If I EVER have a pet, the only way he could stay with me is if he could take care of himself completely.

I finally got things straightened out. Jack was having a ball back at my place playing with some of my golf balls. It was the only thing I could do to keep the canine entertained. Thinking he was subdued for the moment, I took some paper towels and carpet cleaner (the only cleaner I could find) down to the car clean up further. Yet another stupid circumstance: I left the inner and outer doors to my apartment open so I could move things down, and Jack took the opportunity to spring from my care once again. I chased him through east campus for about 20 minutes while Jack must've thought I was chasing him for the golf ball he had in his mouth. Anyway, I finally catch up to him before he can make it to any major traffic arteries.

After continuously redialing Pet Fair over and over and over and over ... someone finally answered at around 3:30 p.m.
"Pet Fair."
"Thank God. I've got a dog I need to board."
"Sorry, we can't take dogs after we've closed."
That's right. There's some kind of policy saying there must be a veterinarian present to take a dog in. I begged and begged and begged some more, but she was as rigid as Jack was burdensome. Whatever. At that point I didn't give a rats ass who was there, they were taking this dog.

So Jack and I loaded up once again and haul ass over to Pet Fair. Once outside and on his leash Jack bounced around again, tripping me up a few times. He'd loved running around me then between my legs to sort of give me the Doggy half nelson. Nevertheless, I circled the Pet Fair establishment exchaning words with the woman feeding the dogs. Now, this place was outside and fenced in with pretty formidable chains and boards. I had to really crane around to see her. Also, there were at least a couple dozen dogs all barking like the antichrist (or christ if you prefer) was in their cage. I had to really shout for her to hear me. Now at one point, I had Mr. Kravitz on the phone to speak with this hard-nosed lady. My hand was through a small opening in the fence and I was on my toes to reach it.
"Just a talk to him and tell him what you told me!" I was shouting to no avail. Seconds after I realized I had stepped in a large pile of dog shit.
"Shit!" I yelled a few times on reflex. I didn't mean for my reflexive shouts to be directed at her, but that's how she took it.

Just after Mr. Kravitz had the bright idea to call the cops, my personal Jesus came rolling through in a BMW. The veterinarian apparently had been called by the lady -- who said there was nothing she could do -- and he was able to board the dog without a problem.

I immediately started laughing about this as I started my drive to my father's place. I used to think that with a little extra coercion I might get a dog. The mood's all changed now. Jack was kind of fun, when he wasn't trying to run away from me. I'll accept that I'm never going to be good with animals and give all friends with future animal favors disclosure of this embarrassing, long, unfulfilling and mildly humorous story.