There seems to be a problem here. The trees are white and pink instead of green. The bushes all have yellow leaves. The ground screamed and split with pain. Overnight Santa Fe turned into a wasteland. For the last six thousand years this area had a tropical climate, people lounged naked by the water and ate berries and pomegranates, wildlife flocked here for relief and earth love. And then, sometime around 4 a.m. this morning, everything died at once. The police found signs of a struggle. Every animal with tear ducts is crying right now with a deep body groan that's sending the grief of the earth up to God. Who turned out the lights? Who turned out the lights?

I did it. I wrote a first semester essay on Hegel titled "Hence Certainty: or the 'Gist' and Kant on LSD-25." I even quote Morrissey. I so win.

A bit of poetry on my blog:

Well, I ride on a mailtrain, baby,
Can't buy a thrill.
Well, I've been up all night,
Leanin' on the window sill.
Well, if I dieOn top of the hill
And if I don't make it,
You know my baby will.

Don't the moon look good, mama,
Shinin' through the trees?
Don't the brakeman look good, mama,
Flagging down the "Double E"?
Don't the sun look good
Goin' down over the sea?
Don't my gal look fine
When she's comin' after me?

Now the wintertime is coming,
The windows are filled with frost.
I went to tell everybody,
But I could not get across.
Well, I wanna be your lover, baby,
I don't wanna be your boss.
Don't say I never warned you
When your train gets lost.

I believe the last post was ironic, but I'm not really sure at this point. At any rate, although I technically included the words "Thanks, Anne", I should repeat it in a better context. It was very nice of you, and I appreciate it.

And I'm still in the library, two hours after the end of my shift. I need a car badly. Scott, if you want to drive Blue Thunder out here for a last hurrah and give it to me . . . . Hmm. It occurs to me that there's not logical way to end this statement. Ah, yes: if you and Anne want to drive Blue Thunder out here for a last hurrah and then give up UMBC, we could pool our resources to rent a practice space. Then we could be a band together, and immediately start making money (and perhaps music) because that is what bands do. And then I wouldn't need a car at all, because I'd be cool and people would ask to give me rides, and I wouldn't have to work at the library, and I wouldn't even have to go to school.

Some people would have assumed that I didn't fix my comments because I couldn't, having absolutely no knowledge of computer language, web site programming, the ins and outs of blogger's "Templating" (I assume that's how it was done), or just what the problem in the programming was in the first place. But Anne, vicious and conniving plotter that she is, knew better. I was obviously just being lazy.

Thanks, Anne. It's nice to be able to consciously ignore your comments, rather than just hoping I was doing so.

*
lest i give the misimpression that it took me over an hour to figure out greg's password and fix his blog, i would like to point out that in the time intervening i made dinner, took a walk, fed the cat, fed the dog, watched the cat beat up the dog, wasted a halfhour of my life i will never get back watching basic cable, knitted a scarf, wrote a song, smoked six cigarettes and had tea and gingersnaps.

man, i'd forgot how hard blogger sucks. five minutes to load a page and counting. there is not enough cock in the western hemisphere for blogger to sufficiently satiate its sucking.

la.

*as you may have figured out, this was not, as advertised, posted by greg. we now return you to your regular, albeit dull, programming.

Je suis assis en une chaise peu confortable, pleurant la perte de mon chaton. Il partit cette matin, parlant que il allait chercher sa maman. Eh bien, je dis; portez la moi et je la choierai. Mais mon pauvre chaton n'est pas revenu, et je deviens tourmenté.

Il faut que je vais; Bob Dylan est sur le couverture de Newsweek.

Chances are I am more tired than you.

Wow, I've really let this blog go. It's gotten old and withered in my absense. In case you were wondering, nothing has happened here. I saw the Pixies, but this can't be said to have happened in Santa Fe qua Santa Fe. (In fact, I saw the Pixies in Denver, which is definitely not Santa Fe.) But I don't think anyone reads this blog for news. So here is some ranting:

There are some excessively ugly people here. I'm looking right now at a guy with long, mildly balding, unwashed brown hair, wearing a red-and-black checked fake flannel jacket. He's got a face like a portrait of the word "hypocrite." He is often smiling a drooping leer of a smile, a self-satisfied ass-wiper's smile, a giggle-suppressing "look at me, everybody, I'm ugly and I think it's cool" smile. His face is flabby in odd places and has wrinkles reminescent of a heroin-addict's arms. Maybe he shoots up in his face. Ultimately, he reminds me of a petulant five-year-old who farts a lot and smiles at everybody in the room. I think this guy's over forty, but can't tell. A few days ago he came into the study room where I was reading, splayed himself out on a couch in his socks, and coughed every thirty seconds. They were little dry flu coughs, which made me want to go get some tea and immerse my head in warm water for several minutes just to get rid of the forehead tingling and chest clenching these coughs were eliciting. If you've ever had anything scrape off some of your skin, not realized it, then looked down and seen what just happened, that's the sort of feeling these coughs elicited. And his cheeks have disturbing pools of saliva, which make his voice sound wet and moldy. The guy just looks like a diseased rat, is all I'm saying.

Also, how might I listen to music more frequently? I've found lately (like, for the last year) that I feel like I "don't have time," which is ridiculous; I have lots of time. Please advise.