The front page came together swell. I've'd nothing to eat all day, except for a scarfed Bread Basket BLT and about eight cups of coffee. What's on the plate at home tonight?
"Well, couple 'nanas, Cran juice, chocolate kisses and a few dogs. Bidness as usual."
I type it later.

Sentimental Sunday

Today at 2 p.m. while cutting a trail against the frigid wind back to my machine, which was parked across down, I noticed some fire trucks and police cruisers blocking off a section of Broadway. To get a look while not freezing I ducked into a nearby store, Cool Stuff. I quickly ascertained the situation was over, as the firemen were busying themselves with the coiling of their hoses. A quick little question chat with the groovy store staff and I'd found my way talking with the driver of the van in question — that is, the van that'd burst into flames. The story: No buildings were in danger. A van was driving down Broadway and a passenger said to the driver: "Your car's on fire!" All those in the van — driver, passenger and mother to the driver/van's owner — retreated to safety, though the van itself was destroyed.
The gentleman driver also mentioned that the van had been serviced by some local greasemonkeys a few days prior. With any luck he hopes to have the entire $1,000 monkeywrenching fee back an possibly a new vehicle. I expressed none of my usual skeptical attitude when he told me this, as I was sensitive to his and his mother's peril.
As to the reason behind the sudden fire, he said he'd smelled gasoline after filling up earlier that morning. "I just thought it was from the gas station," he said. The point here is that the vehicle he and his mother had been riding in suddenly caught fire and burned in the street for no apparent reason, even after having "professional" assistance service the auto.
So here: One can never really tell when the ground will decide to stop working. Perhaps for no real reason one's livelihood will just burn right to the ground. One can spend an entire lifetime thinking about the tragedies that have happened to him or her, trying to decide if it was either fate, bad luck or if really paranoia toward a greater omnipotent enemy is justifiable. If the ground were to open up and swallow everything one loved, he or she, if so inclined, could gaze into the unknown and dream of a future without that terrible past. That dream would be as real as any dream can be, better. But still a dream. The seduction to remain focused on the flames that took one's heart never really goes away. Some things remain on people indefinitely.
One doesn't get over it, one gets past it. Having a terrible past is a horrible fate, but it's past. One should not let the transgressions of the past delegate what is to become of his or her's future. Otherwise, the better fate would have been to have stayed in the fire; have fallen into the earth. Dominating the past is the key to having control of the future. You know that I'll be right there with you, too.
So here're some pictures; one is of the Earth after it'd opened up and swallowed some Guatemalans (the story is linked above), and one is of an unrelated van-on-fire incident.

signed,

Phillip

xox

Speech!

Anyone have Oscars fever?!?! I sure as fuck do (not really). Mr. Traudes and I had a conversation dealing with forecasting which motion pictures would be favored in the upcoming Academy Awards, which I'll not watch. I still believe that the greater whole of the show's more sought-after gems will go to those troopes that offer to provide qualitative sexual favors for those who would decide the fate of the gems. A plentiful amount of the favors is another factor. Forecasting, then, becomes problematic as these encounters are, for the most part, left out of mainstream media. Nevertheless, Oscars fever does provide a moderate amount of relief to those worshiping this entertainment game in America. Good times, for sure.
And while I'm talking lightly, what a better time than now to deliver *ahem* my acceptance speech.

"(--Lights cue up and guest hosts approach podium--)
(Announcer:) 'Introducing the award for "Best actor in a motion picture," from television's "24" Kiefer Sutherland and comedian Sarah Silverman.'
(--Hold for applause--)
(Sarah:) 'Wow, it's great to be here at the Academy Awards. I don't know if it's the bottle of cough syrup I just pounded or all the harsh lights, but this is incredible.'
(Kiefer:) 'It sure is Sarah. I guess you could say I've been waiting for this night — Twenty-four, seven.'
(--Hold for applause--)
'Jesus, who writes this?' says Sutherland under his breath."
...and so on, until...
"(Kiefer:) 'And the award for best actor in a motion picture goes to ... (--drum roll--) Phillip for his portrayal of a mentally challenged bus driver in "Heaven needs hotrods." '
(--hold for applause. Phillip makes his way to the podium, accepts award, shakes Kiefer's hand, kisses Sarah, hides his instant boner, wipes away cough medicine, faces microphone--)
(Phillip:) 'Wow. I can't believe it. An academy award. First, I'd like to thank Satan. Without him, none of this would be possible. *emotional grin, single tear* I'd like to thank my parents; my father for contributing his DNA and my mother, of course, for carrying me to term — and both for feeding and clothing me until I got wrapped up in the world of acting.
I'd like to thank my dealer for keeping me high, all these years. You know I'd shout out your name dude, if it weren't for the civil suit and all.
Of course I must thank Daniel Bonerville, the brave soul that I portrayed on the screen in "Heaven needs hotrods." (--music begins to play--) If the world had more bastards like that fuckin' kid, then, Goddamn, wouldn't this bitch be a better place to live for all of us?
(--Phillip realizes the music is playing, but will not leave--)
I'd like to thank Travis Brodenstilks for writing the original novel "Hotrods for my retarded nephew." I read almost all of it and I've got to say it makes me cry.
I really don't want to leave anyone out. I guess I'll have to thank everyone I know. Then, also, I guess I'll thank everyone I don't know. All the little insignificants that make my glorious rise to fame and unjustified socially induced prominence just peachy.' "

I wasn't joking. "Hotrods for my retarded nephew" really does make me cry. Really.

Yesterday was terrible. While picturesque, my insides shivered with the projected reality of an immanent ambush. Everyone hates me; my back breaks with their work. Then, just before exhaustion was to finally win, Ms. 2012 comes and I become so happy. If I didn't know better I'd tell her I—

I spent a great deal of time the other night staring at the spine of a book I've not read yet, which was parked on my mantel. All this other shit in my life means nothing, —Nothing— save for the fact that it takes me away from my real desires.

" The hospital parking representative tapped on his car. Powerwindows down.
'Sir, do you work in the hospital?'
'I just live over there,' he points to his apartment. 'I get in late; leave early. Nobody notices.'
'You can't park here,' rep replies, ever-indifferent to reason. Powerwindows up.
He types it later."

3 for Tuesday

Maybe there's something about driving, the window down, and a good song on the radio, that sets things right. I see the good & foxxy downtown chicks smoking in the sunshine, teamsters unloading wave, couples w/dogs smile, hipsters nod (they know what's up) great big swallowsssaa sunshine.
I love this town.

This shadowfigure just won't leave me alone. Can you believe he had the nerve to apply for a job? Hell, Temperance and I haven't spoken for weeks now, and he still won't let up. Things're getting thick fellas.
Then again, whatta way to go: Killed by a jealous boyfriend. Yaa!

I just can't keep going. At some point I'm going to have to take ownership of my life. I can — will — only crank it out for as long as is necessary. Any extra beyond that will need to be explained for its purpose more accurately. So, I'm going home.
Yaa!

"In the closing minutes of Monday he closes his eyes.
'Another page finished, rather finishing," he thinks, ready to eat. His stomach aches from lack of substance. But what does he have to look forward to?
'Dinner alone,' he thinks. Alone and thinking of Ms. 2012.
He types it later."

Sentimental Sunday

This is my last semester, right? Why am I working so hard? Shouldn't I be taking it easier?
Yes. The answer to all three is yes (the second Q, too, for semantic reasons that only entertain myself). It makes sense to me, somehow, to always move. In the past when I had some free time I didn't know what to do with myself. Lately, my interests've coincided with a significant other. I say lately, though we're going through some kind of thing. This thing, it's not worth discussing as the details are fuzzy, even under scrutiny.
That aside, when I'm on (in my on/time (when I'm working)) it's nice. I'm putting away a little cash here and there, and I think I'm making some progress arranging news on the front page of Tuesday's edition of the paper. Hell, Sarcastic Mr. Weir even said something positive about it. "Oh P-bone, he probably didn't know it was you who designed it." Not True! He did give me some kind of acclaim, ... though I forget now exactly what. *shake head* Enough of this talk.
Looks like production of coffee is about to jump up a notch. Anyone say "managerial position?" It'll take a month for the coffee plan we've to climax and get cum all over my jousimosiomm plans. And while I'm at it, how about waxing about jsimsimsoim.

This is my last semester, right? What will I do after school? Should I just sell everything and finish the novel kicking around in my head?
Yes, and let's reprise this semantic joke for only myself, as I think it's good. And if you don't then you can just shove a barberpole right up your ass and let the photos circulate on the internet for all I care. Yes, this is my last semester a tha journismsimo school. I've not applied to any papers. Much less, I've not developed any kind of resume. I've all the future of a factory worker at this point — considering the 20large I'll eventually have to start making payments toward.
That future doesn't look so bad, considering how it could link up with my third future, which is with Eastgate. Yess, alcoholism is underrated, especially with impossible debt both monetary and bartary.

And the final future, with her. I actually saw it. We were both working some shitty jobs in our field, getting by until we were able to produce and distribute our respective life's workings. A year on the east coast, then the west, she picks, then I pick. On paper, that future I always walked alone, but for a few moments (weeks) it was a palpable dream that feigned actual capability.
Such is life. Such is my future. Blah, blah bla—

It's somewhat ironic and fitting, that a man with incredible visual talents toward newspaper design should die when I begin my so-called career. Out with the old, in with the guy that'll spoil everything. I'm still on blog vacation, but this was so coincidental I had to write about it.

4, or Friday

Moving soymilk from the Lakota re-frig to my box for delivery, a shadowfigure engaged me: "I read your blog," then something about Stella. Not the beer Stella, some tract he'd read. I wasn't fooled. Get over Temperance already. She's not worth it. Doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure that!

Friday afternoon is for "Tunes from the Lagoon." This chick is the quintessential college babe. After some ramshackle good times it's pleasing to me to know we're friends, probably. With a life like mine it's the friends made along the way that make takinnerrreeazzzy worth it. —Listen to Sweet 90.5!

——————
My feet touch only clouds. My heart swells light and warm against the wind of the day. Her face in the morning light swells it that way. I'd forgotten how good it feels to be liked upon actual basis, upon virtue and paranoias. To actually be liked, for liking back.

"Please don't fuckkup!" he thinks. She makes me feel that all my paranoia, neroses and wordiness actually count for something outside my mind. She makes me proud to be in my skin, thinking my thoughts. I'm so enamored by her that I'm taking a vacation from blogging. Yaa!

As I went through some old songs in my kitchen, while waiting for food to warm in the hour of time between working and studying, I realized what'd been missing before in those songs; what's been missing for months: a happy frame of mind. Didn't think it could happen again.

My entire day consisted of nothing less than a great time. Today's embarrassing moments include (but don't end with): skipping, singing, dancing, laughing. I'd a great smile stretched open, a byproduct of the weekend, which still resonates in me. "What'd you do P-bone?" Answer: I was arrested for ice fishing.

All day long, work, work, work. Yet, I always seem to have fun. The toiling of life is somewhat enjoyable, even with mild backaches.
"Man, that's strong," someone said as I lifted a 1/2-barrel into his car. "You must do that a lot."
My only defense: "Every day, my man."

OK, if I can get a little mushy, I edited a handful of her columns during my stint as a copyeditor/student at the jaosmiom school. I remember her: a touch wacky and sharp-tongued at times; definitely a better read than others'. I feel sad to know she's dead. The end.

The dichotomized relationship between news producer & consumer's never been more magnified: A good idea executed poorly, executed with an inferior medium — inferiority derived from inability to capture the lives of those portrayed because of time constraints. God's work should be done, not vanity's. Alas, the future's bleak.
Such is life.

Alright CoMo, it looks like "it's on." If you're coming after me you'd better be damn sure you know what the score is. ... Wait, ... what exactly is the score? ... Oh! I've about $200 in tickets, which're unpaid.
Don't worry folks. P-bone'll be around much longer than you think. Have faith.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact: Toni Messina, Communications Director - (573) 874-7660

City will post notice before towing for unpaid parking tickets

COLUMBIA, MO (January 31, 2007) -- Notice and opportunity for a hearing are basic parts of the American justice system. After Feb. 1, they will be incorporated into the city of Columbia’s process for towing vehicles with multiple unpaid parking tickets.

The City Council updated parking enforcement ordinances last October. New provisions require placing a notice on a vehicle at least 24 hours before towing and impoundment. This applies when:
* the vehicle is parked on a city street or public parking lot;
* there are four or more unpaid parking tickets; and
* the tickets remain unpaid more than 15 days after they’ve been issued.

The notice is designed to be seen. It’s a bright green sticker that measures 6-inch x 3-inch. Columbia police officers and Department of Public Works parking enforcement staff will start placing notices on vehicles after Feb. 1.

The notice must state that the vehicle could be towed and impounded. It must include contact information for paying the ticket, for contesting it and for seeking a hearing in Municipal Court.

Persons who now have outstanding tickets are urged to pay all fines in Municipal Court. The ordinances may be viewed online at the city’s Web site.

* Section 14-306 - Contesting a parking ticket
http://www.gocolumbiamo.com/Council/Columbia_Code_of_Ordinances/Chapter_14/306.htm

* Section 14-307 - Impoundment of vehicles for unpaid parking tickets
http://www.gocolumbiamo.com/Council/Columbia_Code_of_Ordinances/Chapter_14/307.htm

* Section 14-308 - Hearing on eligibility for impoundment
http://www.gocolumbiamo.com/Council/Columbia_Code_of_Ordinances/Chapter_14/308.htm

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Archived press releases can be viewed online at:
http://www.gocolumbiamo.com/Public_Comm/Public_Information/Press_Releases/