Ms. Morrow covered for another coworker at the paper today; I edited across from her. She regaled the staff with her latest copyediting examination, which'll be audited by a professional news organization. I've never taken such an examination; I feel so far behind. But mostly, right now I feel hungry.

The Wednesday Headache

Startled: I jump at the sound of the Ellis' warnings, phone ringings, and text message blipings. It scares the fuck out of me. Why? They're everyday; occur every day. They're even expected. How do I force myself to accept these sounds as no threat to my concentration? Don't know. Bollocks!

I had a dream I talked Ms. Liponoga down from killing herself by pressing a trigger with her foot to an explosive device located in another room. Afterward, I felt incredibly happy having possibly saved her life. I woke in a cold sweat with an unresolved crick in my neck.

The headache wasn't so bad today. I think it's because I spent less time at the paper overall. Maybe it's because it rained, barometric pressure eased off the bolts leading into the neckbone, which's connected to the headbone. Cold one tomorrow. That means a clear head. Fifty ... and ... right ... there.

"She sits very close.
'How can she just sit there, and look at me momentarily?' he thinks. What a dumb question, he thinks afterward. She's gotta sit somewhere; eyes must cripple someone. How can she smile at him? Why does it bother him? —He knows why.
He types it now."


It's not Fair!

The goal: I'll stay absolutely sober until the final class this semester is over. Not a drop! But, once I complete my last final examination I will head straight downtown, purchase a beer and a shot and, hopefully, will be joined by peers to continue drinking all my anguish away.

If I let my guard down, I'll be torn apart. See, the worst part about answering to (tally from the paper, Lakota, E-gate, profs, city, peers) others's that they never care what you're doing in the off time. HA!—Like Off Time Exists!—HA! I just pay and pay and pay and ...

Sentimental Sunday

Blink eyes and two weeks goes by like sand through a fist. I'm left with a rather abrasive handshake, and still stuff to do.
I saw my parents on Wednesday. One thing is for sure: We can all agree that the Flat Branch Novemberfest is delicious. That's for sure.
I got some sleep. I watched Meet the Press on both Sundays during the missing cycle. I became exceedingly drunk about five or four times. And I worked.
I suppose there're two weeks left in this semester. Maybe more. Who keeps track. I do know that things're coming to a close sooner than I'd planned.

But enough about me. Let's talk about playstation. Did any of you, the readership, stake your claim at one of these miraculous devices? Hell, I've seen advertisements and I must say the games do look very entertaining — definitely the most impressive light-display machine they've come up with yet.
How about turkey? Did any of you enjoy eating this animal on Thursday? I did not have this animal on account of me already having other foods in the fridge. I was toying around with picking up sommeatha deli-sliced packages of the animal, but decided against that.
Hey, how about catching up on schoolwork. I know Mr. Harris had'to've'been working on something because of the electronic message I received regarding the design centerpiece final in the class we share. Here's and excerpt written by the j-sksoll's own Mr. Sherlock. Read, if you're so inclined.

Hey everyone,

Matt Harris just brought it to my attention that none of the cutlines
include credit lines for the photographer.

For those of you who are Photoshop savvy, ... and it goes on.

So, Mr. Harris is on the ball. He catches everything and makes the rest of the class look like real jerks (for the definition of jerk in this context you might need to pull your hair out for it to make sense). And so handsome, and what class! He's got ... chutszpa (gee I hope eyeaa spelled thatttaone rite.) Also, I once went into the bathroom after he'd been in there and I must say that he left it smelling divine.

"Hey, now waitta minute P-Bone. Just what are you saying? And, I'm pretty sure that bathroom thing is a bunch of baloney."
What am I saying. Well, it's nothing to do with Mr. Harris. It's about people in general. Is this world that I live in some kind of big game? Is this school? Sometimes, most of the time, it seems as if the classes and grades around here are angled so that children with a mind-set (*EDIT* Mind-set is hyphenated! Who knew!) toward playing a game — like the playstation! — will succeed. Yes, like the playstation my world (outside of the honest stuff nonacademic) seems to consist of a rather expensive light display, which will eventually be stripped down to the core components and sold for even cheaper than those who'd paid full price right out of the gate could've never imagined. (Granted, a decent percentage of those waiting by the gate sold the machine for more on the secondary market, but that's another rant for another time.)
My handshake these days is abrasive, that's for sure. Whether it's growing more abrasive or less abrasive is interesting, but it's not my principle question. The question is, What do I take seriously? The answer for now (for lack of anything truly definitive): everything.
And this, —Yes, —This is why I spent about 21 hours sleeping, nonstop, and without interruption over the break on Saturday.
I guess you could say I had a nice vacation. That is, until I woke up.

Sentimental Sunday

Will be a short Sunday post, complete with sentences to which their subjects are to be implied. Ate dinner last night with Ms. Liponoga, Mr. Lundby and his girlfriend. Had the seseme chicken and a Red Stripe. Was very tasty. Good times were had by—. Appeared at Messurs. Kravitz and Buck's bash, briefly.
Earlier this week wasted $77 on nothing, on the car really, on the technician's fancy meals really. Had a good vote Tuesday. Made a friend at Eastgate who I'll probably never see again, though only through coincidence. Kind of a bitter jab if you think about it too much. Sometimes — works out and sometimes—
Everyone! I hope everything in your respective lives is going well. I don't get to see many of you at all ever, but I sincerely hope that the wind is at your back, your pursuits are going pleasantly, and your sex lives are filled with fantastic and prideful orgasms both given and shared. I hope luck is shining on you all like a great white light of a horizon far away. Yes, I don't see many of you, and yes, I might just end up acting like a jerk, but I really hope things are going all peachy king and the like. Be well, Fucjers!

Only nine more days, and this here book'll be accessable and readable to good ol' P-bone. What can I say about Pynchon?
If I could, I'd very much so like to live for writing novels that are so goddamn brilliant ... the way I want to see a novel: complex, emotional, and not gaudyatall.
"Nine More Days!" he sez, dopey grinn & all.

Did I already blog about this?
If not, then I'll invite you to please view this electronically reproduced article. Why? The answer is obvious, but I'll elaborate. See, people in this town like their Culture and Art (leave aside questions of sampling). And what picture represents both?
You're Goddamn Right!

2 for Thursday

So I just finished a scrapbook session for editing class. Beforehand, in an instance of poor planning, I'd had a Sierra Nevada at the place where I'd photo my photo class' final project. But it's OK; I got a positive review (not from the alcohol, of course.) I say: Bitchin'!

Easy day, except for the following: With some free morning time, I took my auto to be serviced, due to the reoccurring "Check Engine" light. That cost me $77, and yielded only a bad sensor and solenoid. I'd've'd more peaceofmind if I'd've just torched the money -- and the same outcome!

When I voted Tuesday, I hadn't dreamed that the items to which I'd cast favor would be the same items favored by the majority. *Surprise* This aligning of desires between me and the majority is a first-time experience for me since attaining the legal status as a voter. Whatta Country!

The Wednesday Headache

I spent all fucking day pouring change into the meter outside the paper. In the 4 p.m. hour, I let it go — that's the hour that cunt drops by to drop off the ticket. They can lock me up before I'll pay annieya those fuckers! (They just might, I know.)

You ever notice your own shadow? Noticing that this thing around you and accepting it as an individual would be analogous to my newspaper's editors noticing me as an individual. I've grown to like this: I'll slip in, out, and read with peace & quiet. Still, actually being liked'd be nice.

... and the buttons reconfigure to: control, alternate and delete. Noun phrases begin to shake and collide within their clauses, smashing adverbials, piles of coffee, drunk shoplifters, quartertones, stem cells, "grey" matter and folios into all selves. The shutter wide open reveals an overexposed flash overhead, stinging eyes bent over homework ...

"He hands the camera back to her. Her heart swells.
'My baby,' she exclaims. Later, he catches her hugging it secretly.
'Understandable,' he thinks. She's too good to've let him hold her baby for as long as he did. If only he could photo her generosity ...
He types it later."

I can't wait for the break in classes that comes with the Thanksgiving holiday. Why? To get in some overtime hours, of course? Papers awaiting their write, dishes awaiting their cleaning, carpets awaiting their once-over. Yes, a break is all I need to get things together. That, and some tacos.

Sentimental Sunday

Best parta wakin' up
The morning started quickly with a neat drive into Eastgate and a 9 a.m. Jaegerbomb to set things right. After going through the usual suspects, I happened to take a glance at an Adbusters Magazine. The articles are written good-wise and the photos are fucking brilliant. There are no advertisements. The staff probably gets paid shit wages, if not solely volunteering. I hope to some day work for this magazine.

Dream Factory
I attended a formal affair last night. I wore a $15 gray suit and Ms. Liponoga wore a smart green dress. The event was put together in order to gather money, which would then be used in manifesting the dreams of children who're afflicted with terrible medical conditions.
The gripe I have: I find it a little sad that the formal must exist. In the banquet room sat a great number of people on top of their financial world — including KOMU's own Dave Schmidt! When asked individually for a charitable donation toward the possiblity of granting infirmed children a dying wish, offering nothing in the way of economic transaction (banquet part of the transaction, in last night's case) I'd guess most of those people would not've been as generous. Though, sweeten the pot with the opportunity to put on that expensive dress, high heels and make-up, and you've got yourself some charity that you can deal with! (And even if you don't have all those things, "charity" gives you a reason to go get them.)
"What's wrong with you P-Bone? After all, the money raised did go to a somewhat worthy cause." I know, I know. But hell, why doesn't everyone just get it the fuck together? Why not just skip the ostentatious ego masturbation and really help people? Why do people need these sort of social things to do something nice for others?
It just makes me a little sad to think charity helps. And even more sad to see that it truly does help. And even worse, to see the people that administer the charity dressed like a pomp. I'm probably being crude, I know.

YUM!
Pumpkin beer! I like it very much. Friday I worked all day. At about midnight, maybe a little earlier, I stepped out with the fellas to acquire "the subject," but I was too late, as they'd ran out of it two hours prior. Though, Saturday, oh yeah, after I'd shedded my tie, the pumpkin was had. I like it very much. *Tasteful, yet dopey, grin (I hope)*

Everyone and his or her dog
There's been a lot of talk about this upcoming midterm voting cycle. I am about to follow suit.
During the past few weeks, I've been collecting various snipets of opinion columns, online entries and other matters dealing with polling (insert joke), but now I feel I will not use any of them. "Why not P-Bone? Isn't it important, the opinions of others that is?" Sure it is. Of course it's important to have opinions. I'll not delude myself into thinking that they actually mean anything. For example, somea the columns I read are terribly critical about our current governmental administration, which is headed with playboy President George Bush, Jr. Someathaothaas, columns that is, are taking a general, critical aim at the other dominant branch that exists within our country's political atmosphere. Some columnists endorse while others jeer and name-call. I'll do none of it, of course.

Proverbs for Paranoids
3. If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.
—Thomas Pynchon

It should be clear to anyone giving these issues a cursory glance that they're manufactured. The media've given us the issues to decide upon, and the decisions to make. Politicians've phenagled their way into creating a rather public shellgame with our attentions — misdirection, overexposure, lies and in-house fuckover-y. If you are so enraptured with the issues, hating some and loving others, what people have to say about our future; you become a servant, and always in the pocket. It seems to me that these fellas on top've a pretty sweet deal, right? Feed all the low-level citizens of America a line about "voting matters," "vote for him, not for him," "protect beliefs (we give you)," and they can get away with living a better life on top of the rest.
I cannot possibly be the only low-level thug with this disposition, right? Isn't that right? Of course I'll vote, but there's no sense in believing anything will ever change. The top part can only be removed by the part that immediately follows it on the way down, and when everyone is discreetly satisfied, what hope is there—
"But hold on a minute P-Bone. Why does the top part need to be removed? Aren't things going smoothly the way they are right now? Why are you so negative about those in power?" ...

My photo subject gave me yet another slip during a shoot. This enraged me, so much so that I pounded my steering wheel whilst driving away. That outburst caused my horn to become stuck in the on position. I laughed in frustration.
If you like, draw your own closing remarks.

The Wednesday Headache

After leaving the Paper I wandered for 45 minutes trying to recall where I'd parked. Completely bereft of recollection, I walked. It could've been campus, downtown, cityways, anywhere, nowhere. According to Schrodinger, it was nowhere. My mind's revolted on me, facts're first to go. ... just let me ... *click* ... *advance film*

You never know how valuable time is until you've wasted it. My morning was so efficiently wasted it devolved my internal mechanisms into novelty. Thus, my life's pursuits've scattered me. Time marches, leaving endeavors behind, no matter how much I try to balance the river log, it's a 360-degree fallpattern.

New for today: The Wednesday Headache, in which two posts of a stranger quality are followed by something ... "upbeat." AND HERE's upbeat:
I've taken tons of photos today. The photos've got make the headache worthwhile. So, while the caffeine permeates, I grow a little softer. Soft enough, even, to sing.

Monster Mash, I did the monster mash. It was a ... you guessed it! Graveyard Smash! I put more than 50 miles on the Subaru for Lakota today. And can you guess who came with me? It was the Cryptkicker Five. Har Har. Yes, KCOU played Monster Mash all day. *12-hour-Rockfist*