Braids in the time-space continuum

Had Latin today. I finished about a third of my translation assignment, so needless to say I was sweating my balls off when we were going around the room, but it turned out all right. Tonight there are two basketball games I'm excited to see (so excited, mind you, that I had a dream about fantasy basketball last night. What a cock, right?) AND I got confirmation on the job interview from last week. So let me tell you about the job:

I'm going fully off what I was told in the throes of Nyquil, mind you, with NO fortification of Wikipedia or anything like that, so some of this information may be a bit skewed. But in 2004, a bookstore in New York called the Gotham Book Mart went under. It was described to me as a sort of City Lights of New York for the American modernists. They had a lot of self-published chapbooks and other items of interest (some of which Penn will be working into their rare book room. Fingers crossed for some Tennessee Williams signed copies!), which, if you don't know, is RIGHT up my alley. This is my favorite area of literature, really the only area I consider myself [moderately] well-versed in besides Classics, and not only will it be making me a fat ten dollars an hour for fifteen to twenty hours a week (once again, the ball's in my court for that decision) but it will look good on my resume for next year, AND I'll be spending a lot of time reading bull shit that I would like to be reading anyhow. Sure, I'll run into quite a few authors, no doubt the great majority of them, who history and myself do not give a fuck about. I'm sure, as a friend of mine who worked here last year, that I will encounter lots of self-published shit that I read and think, "Damn, I could have written this in fourth grade" (her words, not mine). But it can't be any worse than undergraduate creative writing, right? At least these fuckers had the balls to put their shit together in some sort of book format.

So although I have zero dollars to my name as of now, I have about a hundred dollars left on my credit card before I max it out, and word through the grape vine is that the remainder of my loans will be here soon. So not only will I have a steady source of cash flow from this job, but also a fat chunk of money from the loans. What can I say? Things are looking good right now.

Oh, and my roommate's car will not take him back to North Dakota. It is not capable. So he's marooned! Fuck yeah!

I have to be at the pet store to buy my cat some more food. Let us all now have twists of fate that force us to do what we wanted to do all along but external circumstances prevented us from doing so. Ciao! (I am feeling  awfully KAWAIIIIII right now)

Take a ride on the bastard train

I've been bad. Where I used to use this thing to procrastinate doing actual work, I've found myself doing even baser level activities to procrastinate writing in here, which is in turn a procrastination of doing real work. So I find myself on Monday, twenty pages of Livy staring me in the face, and after two hours of reading about Piers Anthony on Wikipedia and how to Roach King is upset that bedbugs are taking over the east coast, I finally sit down in front of the computer screen (or rather, click on the "New Post" tab) and decide to write here before challenging the Livy. But I hope you're as happy with this decision as I am.

It's been a pretty killer week. Found out I in fact do NOT have to give a presentation tomorrow (phew), bought a scratching post for my cat, did really well on my homework, umm, watched some good movies, and enjoyed some fine company. My sleep's still a bit fucked, but that's just fine. I tried to remedy this problem with Nyquil last week (as well as a cold I've been fostering) and ended up screwed the entire next day (when I had to take a Greek midterm and have a job interview, which leads me to another good thing, which is that I very well may have a job by the end of the week. I'll tell you about it if I actually get it-- it seems like a pretty good gig). The bottle remains in my medicine cabinet and I think it will sit there for quite some time more.

I have completely run out of money-- which for the time being is all right, I have lots of pasta in my cupboard and just found a whole 'nother cigarette hiding inside my pack-- but it gives me a good excuse to bitch at the university a bit more for their incompetence for getting my loan refund back to me. Seriously, it blows my mind. It's over half way through the semester and because of some strange technicality I have received enough money from them to cover my living expenses for about two weeks, pay two months rent, and for the first of my cat's vaccines. There are two more vaccines she needs, as well as the problem of her tubes remaining intact. This little bastard makes up about 80% of my eight hundred dollar credit card bill. Just another of the things to be paid once I get my four thousand dollars I'm waiting for (and Sally Mae is barking up my tree to get their twenty five dollars a month payment, what the fuck? They still haven't taken anything out of the bank). Looks like kitty is going to have to wait for those other vaccines, although hopefully not until the end of the semester.

I have also made good(ish) friends with some of the local wildlife in the area. During the Phillies series (fuck) I spent a good amount of time in the pizza place/bar around the corner from my place, and although these people are self-proclaimed bums, they have no shortage of intelligent and interesting things to talk about. This one fellow, for instance, Greg. Apparently he went to Berkeley for Political Science, then six years of a Ph.D program somewhere, until finally he dropped out for some reason I cannot recall at the moment. It could all be bullshit, but I've heard this guy tell the story probably four times to assorted company at the same table, and it's always remained consistent. And his friend, whose name I can't remember, who is probably fourty five and black and a REALLY smooth rapper. Just found that out the other night. Slick flow, I say.

Oh, and one other. But this one certainly isn't as friendly as the other two. Well, friendly isn't the right word. He can be just as friendly, but he's much more volatile. A Latin American chap who moved to Philadelphia I think some time ago, named in at least two bands' liner notes and even band names, usually wearing the old school, tacky, poofy red USA olympics caps and ALWAYS drunk as shit. And I'm talking really drunk, shouting something about the Lord Jesus being the Sun in the Night Sky just before he teeters over into my shoulders. And that I need protection, man, and then he hugs me. His name's Omar, by the way. You may have heard of him. I'm sure he's made the news before: the police just ignore him at this point.

Well I've drank my way through about a liter of water during this post and am starting to get a bit anxious about the Livy. Long, horrible night, here I come! I have one pot worth of Fourth Roast beans left and another pound in the mail (thanks pop). Here we go.

PS: you'll notice these silly little squares beneath each post. You don't even need to be logged in to tell me if I'm being an asshole. Take advantage of that shit!

bring me the lochnar

Hey! It's been a while! This week has been pretty ridiculous; nevertheless, I've managed to keep spirits high. My Latin class was cancelled last week for this thing called Fall break (seems slightly unnecessary?) and the homework load has been immense. Twenty pages of Cicero for Tuesday. TWENTY. At Western I would translate maybe two. I've got eight left, I think. I know what's happening tomorrow!

My room smells like cat piss. I need to wash my sheets but it costs fucking six dollars. Tomorrow!

Not much else to say. Made a shepherd's pie today from scratch with Christopher, and it was bomb as shit. Have a presentation to give next Tuesday in Latin. I'll have something else to talk about soon.

Will you get up off your knees?

I'm twenty two years old. It's a long way off until twenty three, too. And you know what's been flapping in my ears incessantly, making me feel crazy? Marriage.

That's right, marriage. I hardly think I'm unique in this. I did, however, think I was of the general consent when I decided a long time ago that I don't want to get married until... you know... thirty or something. Who knows. Not yet. But each day that goes on, there are more and more of my closest friends growing up getting engaged or married. One time last week, somebody got engaged and another was married in one day, and the next, another engagement. My head was spinning-- I've just moved to a new place, from which I plan to move to another new place, and on, until I finish what I've set out to do in life.

Here's the problem: with all of these people getting married so young, I'm forced to consider that "pursuing your dreams" and "settling down" are not mutually exclusive. This is a tough thought. The times I've felt most settled in life are those times that I've been least inspired. The times when I've been most inspired are the times I feel like a piece of shit, like I have no friends, that no woman should ever put herself through the pain of actually wanting to be in a relationship with me; and you know what? Through conditioning or some other chemical something connection going on in my brain, I've grown to like those feelings. I get more shit done that way.

But what I mean to say is, maybe it's just mutually exclusive for me (although I find it hard to believe that when considering to plan an entire wedding, buy a house, think about KIDS and shit, anybody would have any time-- or more specifically, mental energy-- to get anything done in the morning or before they go to bed AT ALL) and maybe I'm one of these dudes not meant to be married for a long time. Is this a bad thing? You know, I think it is.

Just that everybody is getting married right now puts a great deal of pressure on other members of their generation to do so. I mean, christ, why else would somebody be compelled to be married? Is it because they all just fell in love with "the one" at the same time in life? I think it has more in common, probably, with lunch and dinner rushes at a restaurant. Either everybody gets hungry at the same time, or everybody sees everybody eating their big, juicy burgers, and wants a piece of that. So either this wave of marriage will end with many divorces (which, come on guys, is obviously the case), or everybody will live happily ever after.

Good way to deal with all of this? Just get engaged. Don't get married.

Doin' you and your brains cells much damage

Hey team. Guess what? I haven't smoked a cigarette in about 36 hours. And I have a break from school until Wednesday. WHICH MEANS I'll probably smoke a couple of cigarettes tonight (it was unintentional).

I love irritating, bitchy secretaries. I understand that a certain amount of knowledge is required to do this job, as I have done it myself for quite some time, but once you learn this low, base form of knowledge, there is absolutely no reason to mount a high horse. I also understand that the longer you work a job the more embittered you become for it and (moreso) its customers. But come on, if you have a specific, ridiculous protocol for the way you do something, even if it is for the purpose of facilitation--indeed, ESPECIALLY-- do not get pissed at me for not knowing the protocol straight-out.

I'm saying this because I just paid rent for last and this month. In the little "for" section, where most people just say "oh, write whatever you want there," she wanted me to write my address etc. Not a horrible request, so I take my checks back and write the address in the space. Like this: "4416 Walnut Apt. B." And once I finish and hand them to her, she says "You're writing too much. You don't need to write Walnut and you don't need to write B. Just put 4416 dash B." When I type this, it seems pretty reasonable. IT WASN'T. She was straight bitchin' at me. And you know the worst part? She inspired absolutely no confidence in me that the landlord will know why I'm paying two months rent, instead of just one. Our rent's not due until the 15th.

Something a bit happier. You remember how Ladybird was pissing on my bed and shitting all over the floor and generally just making a huge mess, being a bad kitty? I tried everything from vinegar to treats to get her to stop being that way, but nothing at all worked. Eventually I just had to lock her up in the bathroom (this was... three days ago?) with her bed and food, and watch where she would pitch her loaves. Then I laid down newspaper, put a litter box next to that spot full of newspaper, and then ANOTHER box next to the previous one full of litter. She would shit and piss on the floor, once time pissing in the newspaper box, but she wasn't using multiple places. So today, I'm trying to take the next step: let her roam through the house, hoping that she'll go back to the bathroom when she needs to go. What do you think? Good idea?

I need to look up recipes for baked ziti. That's what I'm goin' for tonight.

like a tragedy it's falling through

No, I didn't write the poem in the post below.

Just got the (I think) final passes of the War Dogs CD. God damn does it sound good. There should be some new songs up on the Myspace pretty soon. www.myspace.com/wardogsofthepacific

What a wonderfully anticlimactic day. I woke up super late, skipped the Classics colloquium at four, and ended up basically sitting around on the couch all day. I do have some Greek to do, but it will only take a few minutes.

Fresh cilantro is the best thing in the world. That's all for today.

Read with a glass of scotch.

on lighting a cigar

we ask for no mercy and no

miracles;

(if only there were fewer flies around

as we ponder our imbecilities and losses!)

I light a cigar, lean back

remember

dead friends dead days dead loves;

so much has gone by for most of us,

even the young, especially the young

for they have lost the beginning and have

the rest of the way to go;

but isn't it strange, all I can think of now are

cucumbers, oranges, junk yards, the

old Lincoln Heights jail and

the lost loves that went so hard

and almost brought us to the edge,

the faces now without features,

the love beds forgotten.

the mind is kind: it retains the

important things:

cucumbers

oranges

junk yards

jails.

I have killed a fly

that tiny piece of life

dead like dead love

there used to be over 100 of us in that big room

in that jail

I was in there many

times.

you slept on the floor

men stepped on your face on the way to piss

always a shortage of cigarettes.

names called out during the night

(the few lucky ones who were bailed out)

never you.

we asked for no mercy or miracles

and we ask for none

now;

we paid our way, laugh if you will,

we walked the only paths there were to walk.

and when love came to us twice

and lied to us twice

we decided to never love again

that was fair

fair to us

and fair to love itself.

we ask for no mercy or no 

miracles;

we are strong enough to live

and to die and to

kill flies,

attend the boxing matches, go to the racetrack,

live on luck and skill,

get alone, get alone often,

and if you can't sleep alone

be careful of the words you speak in your sleep;

       and

ask for no mercy

no miracles;

and don't forget:

time is meant to be wasted,

love fails

and death is useless.

-CB

Sunday's post:

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K. Somehow the entry I wrote for Friday never got published (I can thank my lovely internet for that), so you get to read my stale, three day-old prose about shit that's not even pertinent any more. But it's okay, because it probably wasn't even pertinent in the first place. For that, see below this post.

I've finally started getting all of my shit together for this post-bac program. I certainly couldn't take on a job in addition to it-- at least not this semester-- but I've for the most part locked down my homeworking schedule. I say this, not having done any translating yesterday and neither today (yet) but still having about two-thirds of my work left to do. Procrastination, hello.

Interesting time about that birthday party: it was on the boundary of Kensington and Fishtown, two and three districts north of Old City, respectively, and about a forty five minute journey through a HORRIBLE rainstorm, front door to front door. This, I'm told, is the hipster part of Philadelphia. Five years ago it was run down and ghetto as hell, but NOW, all the "starving artists" flock to here for the cheap property costs (I guess?) and old fashioned Philly grit. I like it for the grit as well, and frankly, the area reminds me of Kalamazoo in a lot of ways (minus the black people). This is where the El Bar lies, the delicious hipster bar where you can get a tallboy of PBR and a shot of whiskey for three(!!!) dollars. That definitely beats spending four bucks on a pint of musty Bud Lite from Up and Unders.

But anyway, there was a load of free beer at the party, a whole bunch of people I hadn't met yet (and upon meeting them, proceeded to bumble my way through sentences about the weather and the neighborhood), and about six bottles of liquor for mixed drinks. Oh, and a 90's jams/Lady Gaga dance party. See, for the first half of the dance party (the 90's half), I wasn't too about it. Chris and I sat in the living room drinking slowly, myself going out for a cigarette in the torrential rain every half hour or so, but once the GAGA started, I was sufficiently buzzed to become EXUBERANT (note the usage) and danced my balls off for a good half hour. And a half hour is quite a long time for me to dance my balls off. I'm not too into dancing, especially my balls off. Met some people, ended up taking the bus home, and fell into bed immediately.

Yesterday I went to a reading of the Iliad in Clark Park. The park is historical in one way or another, just like everything else here, about four blocks from my house on Baltimore. This was a pretty funny time as well. Obviously they couldn't read the entire Iliad, so they lifted all the famous episodes and took out all the killing in between. There was still some badass killing, but not as much. Oh, also no catalog of ships (thank god). It was being read by two ladies who had memorized all the lines, one of whom kept forgetting all of them, and they played two guitars lain on the table in front of them and a djembe. A cool idea, in raw, conceptual form, but it was executed very poorly. The variation on the guitar notes they would played was limited to three: one, plucking the low E string over and over; two, slapping across all the strings on the 7 and 12 harmonics; and three, plucking the high and low Es together and then the A and B strings, so creatively dissonant. Why am I wasting your time explaining this? I'm not sure. Because the guitar work was just that impressive, I guess. The readers had these bad porn voices they employed at any point something could be taken even remotely sexually (Achilles' strong, firm rod that no other man in the world could bear). All of this together with the forgetfulness made for a pretty interesting reading. More than interesting. It was fun.

I suppose to should get to Sallust. I've been procrastinating ALL DAY.

Friday's post:

Right now I'm waiting on the War Dogs mastered CD to download, but the internet blows so much dick here that it's taking forever. We'll see if it ever even finishes!

As you hopefully assumed, these past few days have been cRaZy, so I haven't had so much time to post on this little guy. However, since then I have:

Translated 6 pages of Caesar's Bellum Civile
Translated 1 page of Sallust's Bellum J-something
Written 18 Latin sentences, as well as reviewing my previous 18
Done about 60 Greek exercises
Eaten about 8 pieces of pizza
Smoked 3 packs of cigarettes
Finished the John Adams miniseries.

There you go. You're all caught up. Isn't it exciting?

Last night, after finishing the miniseries, I get onto my computer for a moment to check my email, Facebook, et al. and my kitty falls asleep quite cutely in the middle of my bed. Aww, I say, how precious. So I go to get into my bed myself, as she usually wants to nest in my hair before she falls asleep, and guess what? The cute, innocent cat had just taken a HUGE piss in her sleep/just before she fell asleep.

What gives? She was using the litter box until about two weeks ago, when I gave her the bath from hell (she nearly died of hypothermia-- that was my bad). Somehow she's associated that bath with her litter box, for even when I try to lure her into it with treats, she just gives up on the treat and plays with her mouse, or scratches at the bottom shelf of books in my bookshelf, or unties my shoes. She's REALLY got something against that litter box. The litter's clean, the box never used to bother her; I can't figure out the problem.

I know this post is boring and stupid. I'm on my way to a birthday party so I'll have to talk later.

The Philadelphia Pizza Blog part one

Do you love pizza? I sure do. It comprises the main portion of my diet. I eat pizza at least once every day. If you've been reading, you've heard about Pasqually's by now, which is my personal staple. However, in the name of research and the greater good, I have been eating at a multitude of pizza places; let my horizons be expanded, or maybe let them be confirmed.

But before all of that, I'd like to follow up on something I started to talk about last night. This whole deal with poverty. Bummer, right? I view myself as at least moderately impoverished. I'm living right now off an advance made by the financial aid office from two fat federal AND privatized loans which (unless Obama intercedes) I will have to pay back sooner rather than later. You could say I'm living on borrowed time. This inspires in me, when asked for fifty cents or a cigarette when walking to class, getting a coffee, etc. a tinge of annoyance with the person asking me. Sometimes this escalates to more than a tinge as it did the other night. I'd like to say to them, DO I LOOK LIKE I CAN SPARE SOME MONEY RIGHT NOW? in all capitals. Because I don't feel like I can, but is that true?

No way in hell. I can spare lots of money. I wear a fancy watch. I have (semi) nice clothes. I have a Latin dictionary that cost 150 bucks, for christ sake. And these people, they don't have any of these things. They have clothes that are falling apart, a beer (if they're lucky) in one hand, maybe a cane in the other, and a SHIT load of mental disorders. Not only do they not possess this hidden value in cash that I do, but they even represent a deficit with regards to their myriad problems. But if I hold their hand and saw "Aww, thanks for calling me a fucktard, here's a quarter. Go buy yourself some gum," what then am I accomplishing? It's a fat old catch-22 brought on by the business of pity. That's the business they're in: pity. In Prague, Ryan and I (and some others surely) once crossed over the Charles Bridge for some cruisin' and some boozin' around eleven in the morning, walking past a man on his knees with his forehead to the ground and his arms cupped and held out in front of him (that's one hardcore bum, we said); when we crossed it again, probably about seven, eight o'clock at night, the SAME guy was in the SAME position--he hadn't moved an inch-- and we said, wow, he really is a hardcore bum, and old Ryan gave him fifty bucks. Fifty dollars, for sitting in the same spot for nine hours. But the thing is, he wasn't just sitting, he was inspiring pity. We all felt pity for him, poor guy, having to sit there all day just to make some money, so Ryan gave him what he wanted. I wouldn't have done it, but hey, he was one hardcore bum.

The way I see it, I'm not really so poor. Definitely not as poor as I was last year. I have money, it just isn't mine. Maybe I represent the same deficit as them. At least I don't have mushrooms growing from the black mold in the shower any more; now it's cockroaches and house centipedes.

PIZZA BLOG TIME. Over the last couple of weeks, I've eaten at four different pizza places, ordered the same thing at each of them, and put the same spices on each. Three (3) slices of cheese pizza with cracked red pepper, parmesan cheese, and oregano. Here's the sitch:

EVAN'S PIZZA

The first pizza I got. Greek owned restaurant, a family place, Phillys/Eagles/etc. games always on. Block and a half from my house in University City. The people are nice (well, pushy) as you're ordering, and when you sit at the table with your pizza and a one dollar pounder of Rolling Rock, you feel pretty at peace. The games keep you entertained, there's a lot of strange people afoot, the place itself is just slightly warmer and cozier than outside. All things considered, when you first bite into the pizza, you think, "Okay, this is some solid pizza." Then you bite the pizza again, and the taste of the stale sauce starts to hit you. "Oh, this has been under a heat lamp for a little while." Next bite, "Oh, this has been under the heat lamp for an hour or so," then "a couple hours," etc. I one time I did have fresh pizza there, it didn't bother me SO much. Their crust, however, is not prime. It's too hard. Almost hurts the teeth. Anyway, the rating?

--ALL RIGHT PIZZA.

If there's no where else to go, this pizza will do the trick. And good thing, because they're open until two.

GIANFRANCO PIZZA RUSTICA

This place is in Old City, the aforementioned forty blocks I rode on my bike. As you walk around this part of the city, especially if you're like me, you're broke as hell, and you CANNOT spend 25 dollars on an entree of lobster from the City Tavern (no, not even if John Adams had lunch with Ben Franklin there one time after work). The neon orange sign just screams "cheap as fuck!" in the distance. It's a cramped, tiny place, however-- it's cheap for a reason, mostly just a countertop and a few tables (intimate? maybe)-- and you have to watch Mexican Idol or whatever while you wait quite a long time for your slices. But shit, man, these slices are HUGE. About twice as big as a single Evan's slice; I'm legitimately sure I'll only need two, so I only order two. You know the thing about this, too? These slices have to be even older and staler than Evan's. Not only that, but after going back to get a third slice (I'm a hungry dude), I'm even less full. Does it make real sense? Probably not. Useful note that they are also the most expensive slices on this list: $2.50 a piece.

--SHITTY FUCKIN' PIZZA.

Totally not worth it. Spend your two fifty on a beer at whatever the "FREEwittycommentsBEERfromaroundtheworld" bar is down the street.

BEST HOUSE PIZZA

Weird name. Having only seen it in passing until today, I recalled it as "Best Pizza House in Philly," "Best Pizzaria Joint," pretty much all of the "Best [Anything]" combinations you can think of. But Best House? Who knows. Their cheese pizza happens to be french bread-- all the better, so I can be EVEN more full before I have to translate Caesar and waste my life away. They're still into saving Haiti, too, for some reason, so before I even get the slices I'm kind of turned off by all the sad little Haitans I have to look at, telling me "every penny counts!" with a penny taped to the board next to them (does this penny count?). Finally the pizza is reheated. I go through the same rituals: sprinkling it with the spices, setting up my table arrangement, waiting for Chris (my roommate) to get his slices, so I don't finish TOO much earlier than him; and then I take a bite. Well damn, this pizza isn't too bad. Gives a bit of heartburn, from the frenchiness, but the taste is all there. The cheese and sauce actually taste good, which is tough when getting pizza by the slice. And to top it off, I'm actually full after the three slices. Oh, and besides the Haitians, there is a Turner Classic Western on the TV, so the entertainment is there.

--SOLID PIZZA, AWKWARD ATMOSPHERE.

Did I mention that the place was twenty degrees hotter than outside?

PASQUALLY'S

Okay, so you know my feelings on this place coming in. They have my brand of cigarettes, they have the cheapest beer, and the staff remembered who I was after the first few times I came in. This place, like all the rest, has been around since the 40s or something, so there's sort of a tradition to be upheld. The first thing Pasqually's does right: they don't have the slices sitting on display for you to see how old they are. Rather, they have a menu actually listing all the options for slices, and they bring it out from the back to your table. Yeah, there are times when the slices are old, but even then, damn. Without the spices, it's a bit bland, but it's legitimate New York style slices-- the kind you need to fold in half to eat at all because of the thin, soft crust-- and the grease is just delicious. These are probably the worst slices for you, but they're easily the most delicious. Only gripe: not quite as filling as some of the others. But overall?

--DAMN GOOD PIZZA.

Besides all the crazies, which they have a pretty good handle on, they even keep the TV on the SyFy channel so you can watch Sharktopus while you eat.

All this to say, even Gianfranco Pizza Rustica is better than MARTINI'S of Kalamazoo. Fuck that place.

Oreos wrapped in bacon and deep-fried

Sounds pretty good, doesn't it? I'm still a vegetarian.

I've come to the cruel reality that I need to work for at least three hours every single day on my fuckin' classes. I don't know if I've told you this before, but it blows. At the end of those few hours I'm so burned out there isn't much else I feel able to do, besides watch the John Adams miniseries, or maybe that shitty quantum physics documentary "Down the Rabbit Hole." Get real spiritual with it.

Wanna know what rules? Ethiopian food. Just had it for the first time about four days ago, and I've had it twice since then. In case you're unfamiliar, as I was, it's usually just a bunch of lentils mashed together with some sauce, a little side salad, all served on a bed of this phenomenon called injera. What injera ACTUALLY is, I don't know (even though I've read what it is on the menu each time I've been there, thinking "yeah, I'm going to remember this this time around), but it also goes by the name... TEF? TEL? bread. It's essentially a crepe-like deal, really spongy, and huge. They lay this out on a big plate, slop some of their "wop," I think they call it, on top, and give you some extra bread on the side. Spicy as hell, super filling, and guess what? Super vegetarian. Not deep fried or anything. Fuck all that bacon-- as much as I miss it, I'm all right with this.

Last night (at Pasqually's, once again) I ran into the typical "What're you into? UFOs? I'm from Vermont and I've seen them. You're just one of those Everything's Cool tattoo guys, aren't you? Well I'll tell you, everything's not fucking cool, DUDE, you didn't work for it. I worked for it. My brother was in the air force and fucking LOVED cheese. That's what the god damn air force will do to you. Love that fucking cheese. You didn't even work for it," crazy people. It was all right, besides the fact that my body was running feebly on too little sleep and every time she would swoop around to my table (literally SWOOP and come in really close, like a ghost), it would scare the hell out of me. I was just trying to watch Sharktopus on ScyFy but this bitch had to keep asking "Do you care who wins [the Phillies/Mets game]? I don't fuckin' care. We're all losing, " etc. There's a certain state of mind where I can appreciate a person like that-- okay, they're out of their fucking mind, maybe the booze doesn't go so well with their medication, whatever, something to point at and laugh. But SOME of them [crazies] aren't so OBNOXIOUS either. They can take being shot down for a cigarette or some change, but others will grab your arm, tug on it a bit, and call you a liar, or a fucking cheap when you turn them down. And you know what? The only reason that pisses me off is because they're right. I am, in fact, lying when I tell them that I have no cigarettes, or don't smoke, or "only have five bucks for the rest of the week too, man, we're in the same boat." I suppose being so transparent is the real irritant.

Anyway, I'm hella tired-- just rode forty blocks and back on my bike. Turns out, Old City in Philadelphia isn't so bad. Expensive, but all right. Time for some John Adams and then bed.

PS: for all you non-Facebookers, I call this "Layers of meaning: a cosmology for the modern housewife"

at the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards

here i am, standing upon the border of the blogosphere for the first time in years. i've brought a few things along with me for comfort-- you'll notice the angler fish on the right from the xanga days, a familiar username, and a much-loved quote for my first title. i'm no good at titles, it's all going to be downhill from here. BUT since i am not one for pictures, i figure i can keep all of you wonderful people informed with my words in their absence. i am, after all, experiencing so many new things right now living in philadelphia, taking my first graduate courses, etc. so what a better way to organize them than a blog? oh, and it'll keep me writing.

this whole all lowercase letters thing is turning out to be pretty irritating. all right, here's the great transformation:
Wonderful. I mentioned before graduate classes. REALLY, it's only one course, and it's Latin Composition. I get to put phrases such as "He hopes that soon he will attain the highest office, the highest honors; but I, knowing the man, know that he will never obtain them," into Latin! I have eighteen or so of these little babies to do a week in addition to a (long) reading passage, and some other small things. It's lovely coming into class, being as prepared as I ever have been (nb. I never really have been) and getting my ass completely slammed by the graduate students. Do I truly have anything to offer the discussion? Probably not, but as we're talking so much about style, I sure as hell can try. Oh what the hell, I'll post one of my compositions here.


PERPAUCADEREBUSPRAETERITISDICEBATDEREBUSFUTURISAUTEMMAGNASPERABATINTELLEXITVEROCUMMULTISOPTIMISQUEHOMINIBUSSEPUGNAREINHACCAUSADEQUAMAGISTACEREQUAMABILLISDESENTIREPRAEPONERETNEQUEEGONEQUETUUMERRAVISSEPOSSUMUSPUTAREENIMVEROSCIMUSQUIDEMPRUDENTIAMEIUSPROBITATEMVIRTUTEMQUELAUDENDAOMNIA

Looks pretty fuckin' rad, doesn't it? Trust me, you aren't interested in the translation.

This neighborhood in West Philly (indeed University City) has proven itself to be a very interesting place. I was getting some pizza and cigarettes from Pasqually's the other day-- a daily venture I make either for food, cigarettes, or beer-- and three drunk old men were outside the front laughing and carrying on. Naturally I lit a cigarette and stood awkwardly near them until one addressed me. This man said he'd lived here since he was seven or eight years old (when this area wasn't as nice as it is now) and ever since he was that young he's loved these few blocks. How it must have been easy for me to make friends right away, because everyone's so damn friendly. That whether black, hispanic, Muslim, Christian, or Atheist, everybody, seeing everybody else going to the same shit as them, just loves one another here. Sounds pretty utopian, right? One of the men had a doctorate from Berkeley, the other two... well, were drunk.

On the other hand, the second night I was here I had a rock thrown at me by a eight year old black boy after I refused to "give him all of my food."

That however has been my only negative experience. And it wasn't even negative, per say, because it was so god damn hilarious. There's a cafe I like a lot around the corner from my house, Cafe Clave, where they have live salsa music on Friday nights. I'll tell you what, that's a hotbed for 35 year old women who want to get dolled up and "just dance. Fuck everything, I just want to dance." Good music, though. And good coffee. No Fourth Roast, but delicious enough.

Anyhow, good day.