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.

Mr. Bibey substituted for Ms. Dougherty in our math class, and spent half an hour pontificating about how unlikely it is that the Lorenz transformation equations prove anything, and that we shouldn't believe in no principle of relativity/constant velocity of light schtick. "Here's this 26-year-old postal clerk telling me that the station-master on the embankment and the conductor on the train which is moving at 'very fast' velocity are both going to see light moving in a spherical wave? No way! It's gotta be like an ellipse for the conductor, doesn't it? How the hell could we both see the same thing? I may have a two digit IQ, but there's no way this punk, with his poofy hair, is gonna convince me. Hippies are gone, buddy. Spherical wave. Yeah, right. Bull shit, Einstein! I'll bet you anything it's not going to work. Look at those equations! They're not even symmetrical! Here, I'm going 'all-in' like it's Texas Hold-em. And now, of course, someone's going to put up these equations and prove me wrong." Thirty minutes he did this, while the class just stared at him. I was slack-jawed and stupefied with the innecessity of his speech.

Another class for which my parents paid $150.

In senior lab we do an experiment based on an experiment of Robert A. Millikan's, which he described in a book called The Electron, a guide to social dating among homosexuals. We have a machine called the Millikan Oil-Drop Apparatus, made by Pasco. This experiment is that hardcore, unusual, complicated, and Necessary, that we couldn't rely on our normal, fucked-up equipment. Basically, we look at tiny drops of oil (far less than a millimeter in diameter), through a microscope with a cross-hair grid. The drops of oil display several modern night-club dances, put on clothing designed for the opposite sex, grab each other by the buttocks, lisp a lot, and like to drink Hypnotique. One lab partner observes the swaying of one particular oil-drop's hips, and the other lab partner times its oscillations with a stop-watch. The frequency of hip-sways, omega, is determined, in an attempt to discover what song the drops are dancing to. According to seniors who graduated last year, most found that the song was "Smack My Bitch Up" by The Prodigy. Others guessed "Ladykiller", by Lush. Advance reports claim that this year the oil-drops have gone goth, acting as though they didn't even have hips with dance moves such as "Digging the Grave" and "Closing the Lid". We'll need to observe the drops for several hours, some times as many as fifteen, in order to get the most accurate information about how the drops tire, and to make a fluid chart. Fluid charts usually get about as complicated as you'd expect; these drops are always horny.

This is the first experiment we've done at St. John's that I can appreciate. Usually I enjoy them about as much as pulling iron filings that have lodged themselves in my leg, but this one has an obvious educational value. For once I feel secure about the purpose of lab at St. John's.

Things I am happy about:

1. Camel Wides. They have the feel of a straw sucking up really delicious soda, soda that lasts for at least five minutes of dizzying consumption.

2. Infinite Jest, which is the most entertaining book I have ever read. This at least suggests (not verifies) that everything Anne says is right. Speaking of:

3. Anne is blogging at her pre-Cayman pace (even if it is more downtrodden information than normal . . . wait, no it's not); and even Scott is picking up steam.

4. The unidentified insects that like to sneak in to my house when I'm not looking don't seem to like going on my mattress very much. They prefer to die quietly by the side of the mattress, where I find them in the morning and shriek.

5. Einstein and Hegel make good sense. Just imagine Kant on LSD-25. (I plan to write my first semester essay on Hegel, and to call it "Kant on LSD-25".)

6. There is a tutor here, Mr. Carl, who went to grad school with John Darnielle. He relates that John was really into Latin literature, pre-modern history, and performing as The Mountain Goats before anyone had heard of him. I am trying to get Mr. Carl to renew the acquaintance, so that John might come for Reality, or at least stop in New Mexico on a tour.

That's a complete list of things that make me happy right now. It accounts for roughly 3% of my time. Maybe 4% if I keep getting Camel Wides.

You know how, over the summer, I occassionally said I wasn't doing anything? How being in school gives me enough of a format that I could do things in it, even though I had less free time? I was lying, like I normally do.

Can I have some of my readers' opinions of hippies? Let's have an archetype, shall we? Tie-dye t-shirt with loud-colored unmatching pants, walks around barefoot either out of laziness or pleasure, eats a lot of raw food, showers maybe once a week, at least on a first-name basis with marijuanna, smiles more than average person, knows everyone in a quarter-mile radius, often found sprawled out almost to the point of uncomfortableness, rarely or never shaves, messy, greasy hair, likes Bob Marley a LOT. Some opinions, please? Your opinion need not be of the archetype specifically, but of what you associate with that kind of person, what other traits you think they'd have, stories about hippies and you, etc.

Let's have some comments.

A freshman came up to the library desk looking for recent reports on the college by faculty members. He was interested when he read about such reports in a book on the college from 1954. He checked out The Meaning of a Liberal Education, and will probably read it. Awed by the fact that I'm a senior he asked with sheer, giddy, fresh-faced optimism, "Do you feel like you're any closer to the Truth?" Well, do I?

This is a first. Blogger is currently working faster than hotmail or gmail, both of which aren't loading at all. I'd write them a letter, but I'd need to open up another e-mail account.

My less boring thoughts lately have mainly been about people greeting people and forming relationships whether or not they care. Yesterday I watched my friend Geoff Hoffman walk through the administration building, going from office to office, chatting people up, asking how they were, listening, responding with sympathy. He would sit down and wait politely for them to get off the phone, and then chat for a few minutes, ask how things were going at the club, whatever. It was genius, it was beautiful, it was inspiring, it was hilarious. He was bumming a cigarette.

If I could ever get to this level of ingenuousness and affability, I would feel a huge load of inadequacy slip off my shoulders. Most of the people here have superb people skills, with varying levels of inauthenticity and shallowness, so I have plenty of models. I would also develop the ability to read people, and would write better characters. So this is all very boogie.

Oh, and a message to Anne: Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. This is not me asking you to send Blonde on Blonde. This is me asking you to listen to it. I am reading Infinite Jest, as I said I would. Now it is your turn.

I am alive. I frequently wake up in the morning and have a cigarette. It tastes like freedom. I have a record player, and records by Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Ramblin Jack Elliott, Cisco Houston, The Velvet Underground, David Bowie, New Order, Van Morrison, The Smiths, Neutral Milk Hotel . . .. Life is reasonably good.

My main source of protein this week has been Taco Bell, which is emerging as the curse of the traveller. This will probably wear off within a month as my mind realizes that I once again live here, and there is real Mexican food if I want it. I can then get back to making milkshakes my main source of protein, even if Denny's is the only diner out here. I don't care. I can get a blender, or an egg beater, or a milkshake machine, or an ice cream truck, or a manservent if I want.

If you're reading this, I miss you viscerally. I think of you and you only for hours before I can fall asleep, and you make it safe to leave the house. I just wich I knew who you were. Leave a comment, why don't you? And tell me what you want to hear, because I'm past my prime of blog writing, and can no longer come up with much of anything on a regular basis.

It definitely isn't June anymore. It's not even last Monday.

Jesus Christ you guys Monday I am out of here so hardcore like you would not believe. Good goddamn, Santa Fe, here I come. I was so right last year when I considered that it would be best never to live at home again. So right.

Art is grand, but most writers and musicians have forgotten what art is. Saying that art is dead is passé, every generation does that; but it seems every generation is somehow right. Name me a recently written book that has enough passion and innovation to give new reason for living. Try to recall a movie from the last decade that has made you look up and say, "goddamn, no one has ever made anything like this before, and I am jealous!" (Let us think of Evangelion and smile every so often.) Play me a song not written by Jeff Mangum (thank God for Jeff Mangum) that brings some previously unknown part of you to tears. Extra points if the song is not by John Darnielle, or Bob fucking Dylan.

Where is our D. motherfucking H. Lawrence? Our Fyodor grandholyshit Dostoyevsky? Our Franz shitlicking Kafka? (My, what kind of people will find this page through Google?) Our Gustav cocksucking Flaubert? They do not exist! People aren't even named Fyodor, Franz, Gustav, or D.H. anymore! How can we have artists with such mundane names as Chuck, David, or Neal. We can't.

My God, I have just spent an hour looking through reccomendations Amazon has made based on my account, rating stuff, clicking on "I own it" or "Not interrested" . . . how addicting and sad.

I may drive over to Scott's house just to use his stereo. My old stereo, a clunky three-disc changer with pretty good speakers, is in the dump because it started eating Bob Dylan CDs. I respect its taste, but it wasn't asking my permission first. The CDs would slide under the plastic case that was supposed to hold them up, and I could hear the player licking them and getting closer to Bob Dylan than any machine has a right to get. It hasn't been reliably reading CDs for years now, anyway, and both of its tape players were broken. The radio never got good reception, either.

Jeff's old stereo had been on the porch for two years, since the last summer Eric stayed here. He would sit out there at night listening to Ella Fitzgerald and jamming with the cats. He's long gone, to bigger and brighter porches where the spiders don't go and the people all know "Howl" by heart; the CD player was nearly unused. I took it into my room. For a while it was great. Though it was built in 1994, it read burned discs, self-released discs, slightly scratched discs, and Smiths CDs, all things that confused and angered my old CD player. For several days, however, the disc drive has revolted and refuses to open, and I am very sad. The player seems to have rejected my taste in music, and is holding out for the good old days of swing. Now no one is appreciating Bob Dylan.

I think it would be pretty sad to go to Severna Park just to listen to music and maybe use the swing set, but tonight I may do exactly that.

A message to Blake, who does not, as far as I know, read my blog:

You shouldn't have told my cat that you wanted to kick him. He hasn't left the spot by the porch door where you drunkenly brayed at him that you hated him, and swung your leg unsuccessfully in his direction. You thought he was an ordinary cat, I'm sure. If he were an ordinary cat, no harm would have been done. But this was Mulder you insulted. He has been fuming for more than a day now. He's collected some dead bugs and formed them into a makeshift Blake pincushion, and he's been swiping at it and muttering, "Who do you think you are, kick at Mulder, don't even live here, I will eat you, meat, meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat! You goddamn puny bastard, you, I am bigger than you, I am huge, and you are going down, kill kill kill kill" etc.

Well, Blake, you've made my life pretty miserable. I can't sleep now because I hear Mulder. You've gotten the Japanese all in a tizzy. They're expecting an attack, and they didn't send the last check. They seem to think we've let Mulder out, and based on the chatter they're picking up, I can't blame them. You had better come back here and apologize. Japan has been investigating uranium enrichment, and we all know how dedicated the Japanese can be once they have a project.

Hey, is Anne still on that cuh-raaaaaaay-zee 5 ayem schedule?

I am starting an over-ambitious novel, which I have done three times before. This time, however, I am plotting and working out characters beforehand. The story was inspired by a dream, and the attempt is inspired by the song "Novelty". It will be awesome or, at worst, incomplete. I will see if I am capable of any sort of poetic narrative, which has been generally absent from my writing. I can attribute this to lack of trying, because this is my podium and I can say whatever I want.