No one has blogged in a day. Not even Anne. What was Anne doing? This is not the venue for Anne to tell me what she was doing. I hope Anne is not dead. (It would be really terrible if Anne were dead, particularly since I'm making these remarks which would be perceived as insensitive about it.)

The Heartbreaking Work "seminar" was spectacular. Everyone missed out. We figured out everything everyone ever wanted or ought to know about the nineties, post-modern literature and the death of seriousness (or irony), the possibility of art in the modern day, where the culture is going, etc. So, um, yeah. Where is everyone, anyway?

She wrote on the exit, "no escape", and laughed, and lost control.

"why did i pick 1979? well, it's either because of the smashing pumpkins song or because of joy division...what's your guess? "
-Polewach

Things are getting interesting.

John Polewach has sent me two e-mails in which he questions Dylan's legacy (with no logical support) and claims to no longer listen to anything pre-1979 except for Astral Weeks and Pet Sounds. He also listed Mark E. Smith as an excellent lyricist, and professed love for the second album by The Verve. This is classic John, and also very disturbing. If anyone would be interested in reading these e-mails, I'd be happy to send them to you.

In other news, three St. John's Annapolis tutors were up for tenure this year. It was granted to Ms. Pheffer and Mr. Badger, and denied to Mr. Larsen (who is appealing). There is no justice in the world.

I am currently reading the New York Times from Saturday, June 14. It is my goal to read all the papers (the A section, anyway) from the month of June. I have not so much as looked at the papers more recent than June 14. Wish me luck, and godspeed.

Also, today I attended a preliminary meeting for a seminar-style bookclub, held at Laura Manion's house. We will be meeting next Sunday at 7 pm, at Laura's house in Olney, MD, to discuss . . . drumroll, please . . . A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I guess that means Dave Eggers may make the Program in our lifetime. Anyone who is interested (well, that would probably be limited to Scott and Anne, possibly Martin--I'm just guessing he wouldn't have time but he's every bit as invited as Scott and Anne, I'd provide transportation; Noah, my only other reader as far as I know, is in all likelihood too far away, and at any rate excluded for being Jewish), let's get it on and make this the indiest bookclub ever.

The ponies were everywhere.

Shit, man, Noah's right. Well, Noah, I do wish your blog were more like a journal, with more storytelling and fewer holes in the narrative, because you have a lot of craft. Start writing more. It seems like a Lovecraft story without the whole cosmic freaky monster continuum thing. Only it's . . . you. And six really strange people. And six other people who are doubtless even more strange. I want to see the movie version.

Meanwhile, I'm mostly waiting for this summer to end. I mean, I hope the band starts meeting frequently, and it would be great if we could actually do something with it, but my days are feeling really empty. Weeks go by without anything memorable. At least, without anything that I'd look back on with joy. I always feel tired and emotionally drained, even though I've been sleeping longer than average. The last day that I really remember was the twenty hour period spent at Anne's house when her mother skipped town. Scott, Anne, Eric and I stayed up watching anime (X, no less), drinking and smoking. And smoking. Scott and Eric dropped off pretty early, and Anne and I sat on the porch finishing a pack each, talking about everything possible. Then we woke Scott up, and he doled out his adderal in the kitchen, the light just starting to shine in. We walked over to the Severna Park library and sat on the steps out front, and I began to write what slowly turned into a list of two hundred song titles. What a beautiful day. Then Scott's father called at 2 p.m. because Scott had been due back at 11 (a.m., not p.m. We didn't keep him out that long). And Scott's father said, "I wash my hands of you. I've dropped the stone of shame.") And then Eric and I mournfully drove Scott home.

Everything since that day has been either a modest recreation or a really lugubrious conversation with either Scott, Anne, or Roger, with a variety of settings (an Irish bar in Baltimore, Tastee Diner in Laurel, the Ellicott City train tracks, Double TT in "Pasadena"). Noah called me today. It woke me up, at 4:30 pm. He told me about the events related in his blog, mostly, and I was too sleepy to talk much. And then I immediately had to shower and go to work. (And I worked all night; yeah the boy's all right.) I've just got nothing much going on. I keep spending money on records in the hope that they'll cheer me up, and every time it just gives me a really empty feeling. Get me away from here, I'm dying. New York Times, send me no more news.

And you know what's really sad? I had planned to finish my Japanese book by the end of April. And I haven't studied it at all since Croquet Weekend. And I haven't written any fiction since February. And I don't really think SJC Santa Fe will help very much. Heck, maybe. But just what kind of life is this, anyway?

On a side note, I hope I just beat Noah for Most Heartbroken Blog right now. That's the real competition, anyway.

Scott, you had better stop shaming me with your more frequent blogging. Two nights in a row. One more and you have a pattern. Then where will I be? Where's my distinction? How can I live with myself? Not that I don't enjoy actually being able to read new posts on your blog. As a matter of fact, please do blog every night. Even the nights when you're too lorn to do anything but cry. Just get online and tell the world about it. You'll be a famous writer yet. Then you won't need indie girls, but will have lots of them. You'll forget that you ever knew me, you'll pass by when you see me on the street, and I'll stop by your house every night to peer in the window and watch you blog. Blog, Scott, blog to your heart's content, because you can't possibly satiate me. Blog until your fingers have callouses, and your keyboard is broken; then go to someone else's computer and continue blogging, and I'll come by and fix your keyboard so you can blog more comfortably. May your blogs be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the beaches. Blog like you mean it.

But still you will have Anne to compete with. Yeah, you don't really have a chance at beating Anne. You should really just give up this whole blogging thing.

This post is to ensure that I have a higher frequency of posting than Scott, who posts very infrequently, choosing, instead, to post his tears on the basement floor, wetting his Juliana Theory posters. My excuse is this. Unlike Scott, I spent almost no time in my basement (where the computer is) in the last two weeks. I had relatives over, first my mother's two sisters, and then my father's parents. They slept in the basement on a pullout sofa. This has also meant that I have drummed only once. Anne mentions it in her blog; well, not my drumming specifically, but the first meeting of Satan Tonight, née The Masters of Awesome. Roger Awesome brought his electric piano and played goth-disco chords, to which Scott added his angry-sounding guitar (his amp allowed only feedback noises), and Anne imperceptably played keyboard bass ("it sounded really good from where I was standing").

Apparantly, J. Spaceman heard us play, because he sent me an e-mail offering me a job replacing Spiritualized's touring drummer, who has blood cancer. No, really, he did. I'm not going to give you proof, because I don't want to substantiate any rumors. I only want to start them. Now I only hope someone is out there searching for Spiritualized news, comes upon this page, and posts this information on Spiritualized's messageboard. And then that hipster guy who had just bought a band t-shirt will read it and tell random people at the next show why they only played for an hour, and why they will be playing much longer (and more rocking) shows in the near future once Jason finishes negotiating with me (I'm demanding no fewer than three groupies, songwriting credit on the next album, a more prominent position on stage, at least three shows with GWAR as the opening act, and a studio apartment in New York City, in midtown, within two blocks of my favorite pizza parlor. If you support my efforts, lobby your congresspersons).