Why do I like cheese so goddam much? Why does my mouth water whenever I see cheese? When I wanted to go vegan, why could I give up milk and eggs, but not cheese? Am I addicted? Is that it? I'd rather not live than be a slave to cheese! I will not give up my fight. I will become free! Unless . . . perhaps I'm being too rash. Perhaps it's not that bad to be a slave to cheese. Maybe I should just bow down to my master and serve him better.

Grandparents here. So very, very hungry.

I wrote a letter to the Washington Post last night about the Supreme Court's decision in Michael Newdow's "under God" case. Now that I type it here, it occurs to me that, in the letter, I probably referred to "in God we trust" by mistake. Oh, well. They'll fix that if they want to publish it, right?

The letter responded to an op-ed on the 21st by William Raspberry, who is generally liberal, and who nevertheless supported the Supreme Court's ruling. He compared the ruling to a "no call" on a slightly questionable play in a basketball game. The idea, he says, is not to interrupt the rhythm of the game for an issue that doesn't necessitate it.

I tried to present the view that "under God" is one of several disturbing customs in government which infiltrate public life, such as swearing on the Bible in court and for inaugurations, and the habitual statements politicians make about their religious faith. These are symptoms of a subtle but wide-spread religious (read: protestant christian) influence on our government's worldview. It may be small, but I think it is significant and a good place to start in bringing this issue to light.

Did you know that Tom DeLay has a sign in his office saying "This could be the day," referring to the Rapture? How does a man like that become the House Majority Leader? John Ashcroft compares himself to the biblical Daniel, saying that he doesn't let public opinion influence his decisions, and instead looks to his religion (which, by the way, is Pentecostal). Bush chronically refers to evildoers in his speaches, and describes the world as a struggle between good and evil.

It's a lucky thing none of these people are in positions of power; not being Jews, they are not allowed into the real decision-making. They're just a bunch of troublesome goyim. Public elections, after all, are just illusory, and have no influence on policy-making. Nevertheless, I long for a day when running for public office doesn't necessitate reassuring voters that you are religious; when the debate over social services doesn't center around whether it should be the church, and not the government, to provide them; when reason, and not religion, rules the people's opinions on abortion; and when public schools don't even consider prayer, posting the ten commandments, or having students hear "one nation under God" every weekday, nation-wide. It's a bad sign that a majority of the country is opposed to the smallest of these changes.

I have recently found out that my house is bugged. We've had the typical ants every summer, and the front door lets in moths and spiders rather regularly, but this sort of bug was different, more insidious, electronic . . .

I contacted the government, asking them what to do. I got an e-mail from Karl Rove, in which I was informed not to panic, that this sort of thing happens all the time, and that the best thing I could do was put on a twenty minute press conference with an advisor whom the public seems to like, but not to appear myself.

I present to you my Secretary of Whining Noises. Ask him any questions you like.



Ladies and gentlemen of the press, you have twenty minutes.

How the Mustache Club won last night

Roger, though awesome, is a bad communicator. I might dub him The Weak Communicator, but he would still compare favorably to Reagan. He sent me four e-mails since January, each one containing, at most, five lines. However, since he is awesome, this means he usually includes the most important information anyway. His last e-mail told me that he was no longer planning to get an apartment in Maryland with me as his roomate; he's moving to Houston. He left no phone number. When I tried his old Baltimore apartment a month ago, I left a message and got no response. I called again two weeks ago and his number had been disconected.

This Friday, he responded to my last e-mail in a manner that I would not characterize as timely, giving me his "dear old granny's" phone number, and saying that it was the easiest way to reach him right now. He was in Ocean City, and told me that he would be returning home Sunday at 9pm. He didn't say where home was.

At about 8:30, I called his granny. She told me that he had just left to visit a friend, in Eldersburg if she remembered correctly. "Ellicott City?" I asked, and she said yes, that was it. Not too much later, while I was on the phone with Eric, I saw Roger's white Altima through the window, and a very long-haired Roger getting out of it. I went to the porch to greet him, no longer processing what Eric was saying to me. We grinned at each other and I let him know what was going on with the phone. I sat Roger in the kitchen, said goodbye to Eric, and got my most important possesions: a purple lighter and a pack of cigarettes.

My father currently believes that I don't smoke. I told my mother that I still do, and even submitted to silly questions with varying levels of answerability ("Why?" "How many do you smoke a day?" "Where do you plan to get them?"); my father, however, has threatened to stop paying for college the few times he's become aware of my smoking, after which I convinced him that I'd quit. So he gave me an equally silly rueful acceptance that I was going with Roger, whom he considers a health risk.

I returned to the kitchen, where Roger was playing with Mulder. He was wearing a black Harley-Davidson t-shirt with a colorful swooping eagle on it, and a dark pair of blue jeans. It's impossible to see Roger without thinking, "that man is awesome." I suppose even his family members are not immune to his charisma. As humans, it is our birthright to walk upright; for Roger, more-so. His hair is immaculate, and seems more like a rockstar accessory than dead skin cells. His voice insinuates itself into your consciousness, causing you to immediately trust him for more than he's worth. Mulder, who already likes everyone who walks in the door, swooned and said, "Dear sir, if I ever have the honor of accepting a scrap of meat from your hands, I shan't forget it." Roger didn't seem to notice.

As we got into his car, we asked each other catch-up questions about school and plans. He's told me before that he felt like he had no one to talk to when I went back to St. John's, because he mostly hangs out with blank-minded hipsters. I recognize a repressed glimmer of intelligence in Roger, but he doesn't make any definite use of it. Our conversations about the present, which should be the most fluid material for conversation, peter out after a few blanket statements. I let it go for now as he asked what I wanted to do.

"Would you like to drive to Annapolis, see if we can get Scott?" I asked.

"Sure."

We drove a bit and I asked questions about how he's living his life, what he thinks about it, how he might be more ambitious. He responds fairly well to this sort of thing, and I suppose it's what he means when he says I'm someone he can talk to. He's the opposite of my brother Jeff, who doesn't even understand the intent of my prods to get him moving, out of the basement, more mentally active. In the background, the stereo played Et At It, a meandering trickle of experimental guitar and keyboard.

Once we got to Annapolis, Roger manuevered around the many West Street detours and found a parking garage that was free for an hour. Then I called Scott from a pay phone on Maryland Ave. His father came on.

"Hello?" he said in his nervous Jimmy Stewart voice.
"Hi. Is Scott home?"
"Who's calling?"
I told him as Roger said, "twenty-one and they still ask who's calling . . ." I waved my hands in resignation and heard the affable Mr. White calling out, "Sco-att!"
Scott sounded like he was on sleeping pills as he said, "Hello, Gregsford."
I told him we were on Maryland Avenue and asked if we could pick him up. I had woken him up from a nap. "Why are you there?" We could come, he said, but he'd be wearing his bedclothes.

A little bit later, we pulled up by his driveway and saw a light go off in the living room. Scott came out wearing a white t-shirt and plaid shorts. I had instructed Roger to lightly joke about the bedclothes, hoping that Scott wouldn't take offense. Instead, Scott returned to the house to don his pants, and we were off.

We went back to Annapolis, listening to Crispen Glover's oddly intoned rap about masturbating, and parked by St. John's. We got out and looked at each other; Roger and Scott have only seen each other a couple of times, and I never know how they'll interract. They always do pretty well, though. We went uptown to find a bar. The first place we passed was hosting some sort of porch party. There was drunken and exuberant shouting, loud lounge music, bright lights, Annapolis twentysomethings. Obviously not the place. As everyone knows, it's not cool to be loud without an explanation. We went on, and as we approached West Street, we were accosted by a group of maybe a dozen very drunken celebrators, clapping and chanting, who called out, "our friend just got married!" We applauded and said congratulations, and then the group grew closer. A woman stepped out and said, "Are you guys in a band?" One of us, I don't know who, said yes, and she asked, "What band?"

"We're The Mustache Club," Scott said. "Our motto is, Gotta Have a Stash."

"Oh, cool," the woman said. "Are you headed for that bus?" She pointed at one by the Ramshead.

"No, we have our own bus."
"Yeah," Scott said, "The Awesome Bus."

"Yeah?" She smiled. "We're on the other awesome bus. We're going barhopping. Do you guys wanna come with us?"

We glanced at each other, and before we had consulted beyond shrugs and bemused grins, we were following the drunken revellers. Roger moved up ahead toward a group of the guys, and the woman who had invited us along talked to me and Scott. The group continued to clap and chant, and occasionally called out, "Yeah, Mustache Club!" "Mustache Club!"

The woman's name was Brienne, or maybe Rienne. Scott was talking to her openly, and I was too bemused and embarrased to say much to anyone. Brienne, we learned, was the bride. She was wearing casual white clothing, and looking bony. How were we supposed to run this? What if they found out we weren't a band? What the hell were we doing, anyway?

As we went along, a bulky guy wearing a grey shirt asked our names. Scott told him, and he said, "No, man, your moniker, not your real name." I forget what Scott told him, but we all laughed. "That's Roger, and this is Gregsford," he said, pointing at me. Brienne and another girl, probably her sister, came up to me. "What's your name again?" the sister asked. "Greg, but some people call me Cicada." They both laughed and made a chirping sound. "Greg's the shy one," Scott told them, and Brinne swept over to me, put her arm around my shoulder, and shouted consolation about how she's shy too, and most people don't know how to react at first, but eventually, etc.

We got to the first bar, where a post-rock band was playing. Scott, who had been recording the conversation and calls during the walk, passed his tape player around asking if anyone had words for posterity. I didn't hear what people said. The guy with the grey shirt handed us all beers, which was the first tip-off that we were getting a free ride tonight.

Roger and I sat in a booth near the bar. Scott stayed with the tape player for a while and came over when he got it back. We drank and asked each other what the hell was going on. Scott was grinning and looking elated. Roger seemed used to this sort of scene, although from what he said later, his thoughts were pretty similar to mine: "What are we supposed to do? How are we going to get out of this?"

A few of the guys came over and chatted with us, though I couldn't hear them over the music. One of them brought us more beer, and we thanked him. The man silently clapped me on the shoulder and went on. Scott passed his tape recorder around, asking for our thoughts. Then he asked for a cigarette and told the mic that he was smoking.

Brienne came and sat at our booth, looking happy to see her band. I couldn't hear much of what she said, so I probably had very inappropriate responses. I was overwhelmed by the group, most of which was dancing right next to the real band with some bizarre hands-in-the-air-hips-gyrating moves.

Then Scott and I went to the bar and got two shots of vodka, because they didn't have ouzo. It went down very smoothly; since it cost Scott $4 a shot, it had better go down smoothly.

Not much later, the group started to leave, so I quickly finished the third free bottle of beer and we went out. "Let's hear it for our band! Mustache Club!" We began walking toward another bar, this one by the market. For the first time, I noticed that two guys in the group were talking with British accents. Scott asked where they were from, and the younger of the two said, "We're from Kent. It's in southern England . . . just south of London." They commented a bit on our area, saying it wasn't like in the movies, where each section of America was stereotyped. I didn't know whether to believe they were in England, thinking: if they believe we're in a band, how do I know they're not trying to impress us by "being from England"? I gradually became convinced as they had realistic and identical accents, which they never "dropped," and their responses to questions about England seemed immediate.

In the second bar, Scott and I sat on stools, Roger on a baby chair. We shouted conversation to the two Brits over the average bar juke music. The wedding group kept smiling at us whenever they saw us, and giving us free bottles of beer. We still had no idea why they were bringing us along, but we asked no questions. They were treating us like VIPs.

I asked the younger Brit why he thought the Darkness was so popular over there, and he said that they were the only group with any style. He talked to Roger about what kind of music we played, and Roger told him that we were not, in fact, in a band together, but that he played keyboards in a group called Tra La Log and D.I.G.I.T.A.L., and that Scott and I were in separate bands as well. No one else in the group found out, at any point, that we weren't actually The Mustache Club.

After a bit of conversation, most of which I couldn't hear, we began to leave this bar too. Scott found Brienne near the entrance and began apologizing for recording without her permission. I had missed some comment abaout it, apparantly, and Scott was very upset. Brienne looked tired and seemed less excited than she had been before, but she said that it really wasn't a problem; she had just been drunk and emotional when she confronted Scott. She told him not to worry about it, but Scott apologized again. "Really, it's all right."

We went to one last bar, which was the first place that carded us. I didn't have my wallet. "How old are you?" the bouncer asked. "Twenty one." "Twenty one on the nose?"

He told me to wait outside so his manager could ask me a few questions. Once the group was all in the bar, the bouncer just asked my birthday and the place I was born, and then allowed me to go in. He didn't need his manager, apparantly. "I hope you're not lying to me, man."

In this last bar, a white band with steel drum and guitars played a song for the new couple, something about how "you've never looked nicer," and we all got more beers. The group still grinned whenever they saw us, murmering, "the band!" Roger danced with Scott for a bit, and then The 'Staches sat on the stools and watched. I wasn't aware of how long we were in this bar. I was getting very tipsy: I think I was on my seventh drink. I was smiling, but starting to feel very insecure. I wasn't alone, apparantly, since we looked at each other, briefly decided that it was time to go before they got mad at us, and said our goodbyes. The group responded as if we were close friends. We got firm handshakes, offers to sleep at their house, pats on the back, hugs from the girls. As we left, Brienne pulled me close and repeated what she had said earlier about shyness. I understood no more of what she said this time, but smiled, nodded, said something strange. She kissed my hand, an odd new trend among girls; I kissed hers back and left.

We walked back to the car badly in need of a business lot, but instead made use of the beautiful St. John's campus. In Annapolis, the world is your bathroom.

Scott, as usual, took up the voice of our subconscience. "I hope those guys don't see us again. That was really weird. What do you think they wanted? Did they really think we were a band?" We didn't know the answers to these questions. I attempted a few of them, saying they were just looking for a good time and it didn't matter to them whether we were a band or not. They got to extend their generosity and have young companionship on their bar hopping.

We went to the Double TT, which is the only appropriate end to any night.

I don't wish it were the sixties, but I do wish something would happen.

My parents came home last night, and they took me clothes shopping. I got more threads than a tapestry factory. I got more threads than a 50x50 American flag. I am now the best dressed man since Morrissey. It's a good thing, having parents. I doubted it before, but damn if they didn't buy me more outfits than are in the army. Shame I couldn't smoke in front of them, though. By 8 pm I was getting a splitting headache from lack of nicotene. I began to have hallucinations of cigarettes. I would close my eyes and see smoke curling into knots and drifting off to attack a nun. By nine, my stomach started to revolt. I could swear its grumbles were saying, "Hey, man, what do you think of Joe Camel?"

My parents retired at midnight, and I went to my room and listened to my $2.99 copy of I (thanks Scott for having Dustin sell me a demo. I don't think I tell you you're cool enough. You're really cool). After about a half an hour of waiting for my parents to fall asleep, I got my cigarettes and went for a walk.

By the time I had gotten to the bridge at the end of Main Street, I had smoked at least six cigarettes but I still wasn't satisfied, so I continued walking. A man approached me from behind and asked if I wanted to walk with him. He fumbled witht the cork on his bottle of wine and only managed to break it, so he got a pen out of his bag and pushed the cork in. We kept walking, passing the bottle, and he began to talk incessantly. He took me for a musician, because of my sterling Malkmus hair, I suppose, and asked if I knew any of his friends.

"You don't know Bobby Dent? You look like the kind of guy who would know him. How about James Trenton? No?"

He told me about getting beat up on the streets of Baltimore, first by two guys who were pissed at him, and then by the cops who came by to break it up. They put him in jail for five days because they thought he was on acid, he said. He told me about being the only member of his family to graduate college, which he had just done at the age of 27; about his truck driving Republican father; about how all the women in his family had been raped; about his plans to move to England and teach at a school for retarded six year olds; about how he was writing music that would properly fuse rock and hip hop, "not like that Limp Bizkit shit . . .". We were getting into Catonsville, so I told him I had to turn around.

It took me about forty minutes to get back to Main Street. After the shops, as I started heading back up the hill, four guys passed me going the other way. "Hey man, you're a fast walker. We passed you about twenty minutes ago." I grunted and kept on going.

Message to Bridgie: Man, I'm sorry I didn't read your comment until just now. This is the first time I haven't checked that every day, believe me. I just haven't been in houses with internet access. I wrote the last two messages in the Evergreen library, which wasn't open when I was typically awake anyway. It would have been really cool to hang out.

Also, this must mean I have more readers than I thought. How did this happen? I suppose there's just that much boredom in the world that my blog is considered readible. Perhaps there are millions reading my blog! If so, I'm really sorry there isn't more content. I'll start trying to lead you all, soon, and maybe we can create something really cool; like a geodesic dome, or a preservation chamber for people like Billy Corgan and Robert Smith so we can have them in their fallen, awesome state forEVer.

So, I'd just like to give a shout out to Bob Dylan, who, for all I know, has been reading this thing for over a year. You're really cool, Bob, and it will be a sad day when you die. I will morn Jewish style, only instead of a year and a day, I'll just found Highway 61 again and bum up and down it for the rest of my life, screaming to passerby about your genius. And I'll start a tribute band called The Whining Poets, which will include Morrissey, John Darnielle, and Stephen Malkmus, and we will rock your songs to massive bar gig success. It will not be fitting tribute, either option, but then there is could be no fitting tribute. So please don't die.