Monday, September 30, 2002
I'm on my lunch break, in downtown Seattle, walking along with a cheap guitar strapped to my back with twine that I found in a dumpster. This voice from behind me hollers, "hey man! . . . guy! . . . hey guy! . . . man!" I've ignored it long enough. I turn around, finally realizing that this person is talking to me! A long-haired kid walks up to me and, while I'm expecting a request for a) money for food, b) money for the bus, or c) money for money's sake, he surprises me with an invitation.

"Hey, man, you got plans for Halloween? Well, if not, you should come down to Eugene [Oregon]. The address is [something here], tell them that Ted sent you. There's gonna be a LOT of musicians there and it's gonna be a MASSIVE jam session. We're hoping it'll go all day and all night. And you know?..." at this point he lowers his voice, "...Bob Dylan might be there, man. I don't know, but he's playing a show in Eugene on the 5th, so you never know..."

Of course, it turns out that Dylan is playing on OCTOBER 5th, and not November 5th. I'm sure Mr. Dylan will not be staying at Ted's place for 26 days. See, look at his tour schedule. And who the hell invites random people off the street to their house anyways?

Thursday, September 26, 2002
While it is true that electronic media are converging, what is less commonly understood is that they are converging toward me. I will soon perform all the functions of your TV, telephone and computer.

So you'd better get used to me. I like orange juice, so try to have a lot of that handy.

Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Just returned from NYC, where the air smells like my undies. Came back and decided to paint. Make "works" of "art." Realized I like my backyard and enormous kitchen. Realized that New York teems with hipsters working hard to attain the image of a Seattle hipster. Problem is, the city is too expensive for real white trash. Does Prada make a foam 'n' mesh hat? Anyways, I'm back and Seattle, I've reaffirmed, is one lazy town. It needs a firecracker up its butt.

Speaking of Jad Fair, listen to his album "Sunshiney Sunshine", and listen hard. Or, have Jad Fair create a song just for you...for only $300!

Here's a story for you.

A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse. "But why?" they asked, as they moved off. "Because," he said, "I can't stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

Friday, September 20, 2002
Seth: Go to Sedona and hang out with Keith (see Daniel for details).

Daniel: When I used to work at a restaurant, my friend Rian Koch used to stand in front of the grill and brandish his spatula, saying, "I am the King of Grilled Sandwiches!" Maybe you should try that.

Pauls: "Memory is an irredeemable series of photographic indescretions," should be in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations.

David: Sit your bitch ass down.

And now, a guest blog by my friend Jon Anderson, the only genius within 30 miles:

another one minute poem:

Jolly Old Saint Nick
fell out of his sleigh and stubbed his dick.
Is it possible to stub your dick?

Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Lately, I've been getting into soccer. Don't worry, I'm not going to turn into some awful Anglophile. But it's an interesting contrast from baseball, because in baseball, everything is measured in statistics. There are hundreds of statistics. In soccer, there's like three. So most everything is based just on observation of the players. I like that.

I'm going to have some free time in Arizona in November--anyone who knows of anything cool to do in Arizona should e-mail me at

Tuesday, September 17, 2002
I would love to be the king of something. It really doesn't matter what it is. I'd even trade lives with
Arthur here.

My backpack must weigh sixty pounds.

I've been dreaming of rabbits recently. It's really disconcerting. If I were a cultural critic, like some of the folks here at Cornell, I would investigate rabbits. Foucault, Barthes, and Bataille all have written on the subject.

Personally, I prefer oranges. Besides, every visual image is a fetish. Memory is an irredeemable series of photographic indescretions.

Thursday, September 12, 2002
Did you know that Dr. Seuss regularly wrote piercing political cartoons? Featuring all your favorite lovable, huggable characters from the original Axis of Evil. It's true! See, check it out.

Hi, I'm Dr. Seuss, and I'd like to take a moment to talk about peace. It is not difficult to create peace in the world, if you just follow a few simple guidelines. First, get a bird and put it in a cage, and then hang the birdcage from a long pole that you mount to the hood of your car. Drive around like that for a while. If you have the time, construct a complicated machine made out of pipes and bellowses and have a small furry animal pump it while he sings. Finally, convert everything into its opposite and then back again. And... presto! You have been too busy to kill or maim people! You didn't kill them with a gun; you didn't kill them... you had fun!

This message brought to you by the Christ Almighty I Have No Fucking Life etc.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002
It's like a citywide funeral service in New York today. Hardly anyone was talking on the subway. Even here in my large office, it is unusually quiet. Very much a repeat of the days and weeks following Sept. 11th (2001).

Monday, September 09, 2002
The Society for Brief Historical Reconstruction presents: The discovery of Penicillin

[1927. A laboratory...]

Alexander Fleming: Look! Penicillin!
Nameless Assistant: What?


Now now, darling, don't you worry about me...

Sure the last few messages have been a little anxious, but hey the summer's over. What do you expect? I found an enormous black foam cat's tail the other day on the street. See? Things are looking up! And my landlord fixed the clogged sink this weekend (an earring was stuck in the pipes, collecting hair). Life is beautiful!

I'm gonna get my haircut over at Rudy's Barber Shop today during lunch. Now, which style should I go for? I'm thinking...the Mabel Normand.

Sunday, September 08, 2002
Hello from the fuzzy.

I am writing about Walt Whitman.

He wrote: “And over all, the sky—the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.”

Friday, September 06, 2002
All over the country, it's happening: America is making progress. Every day, new drugs are discovered and outlawed. Sexual practices never before known to society are exposed and publicly denounced by everyone except the people who produce the videos that promote the practices... which we then consume in staggering volume. In great numbers, religious leaders such as Muhammad, Jesus and Buddha suffer disgrace at each others' hands. New surveillance technologies make it possible to resolve criminal activity at ever-increasing granularity, requiring the creation of vast new fields of legislation. Educated criminals everyhere jump at the chance to be guilty of pseudoconstabulary remote-action fuzzy-logic-based upper-gray-market international e-commerce fraud simulation (with intent to defraud). Eventually, we'll all participate in the fun, when the average American becomes more likely to commit a crime by accident than by intent. Well, at least jails are pretty easy to build, what with cheap prison labor.

We will watch all of this on television, the national sport, commenting to each other, between bites of Cheeto's, about how interesting it is to watch people on television watching each other. "Look, they're watching that guy. And he's watching them watch him. He's worried that they're watching him. Wow, he is so paranoid. Crunch, crunch, crunch, yum Cheeto's.

America, I'm concerned about you, motherfucker. You're letting yourself go.

Thursday, September 05, 2002
I won't bore you too much with my woes. But, yesterday, after lunch, I got the worst headache I think I've ever had. Right behind the eyes. I was nauseous. And dizzy. And sweaty. And weak. I can't blame the Thai food cause nobody else got sick, but I do blame the stress. I try lying down on the floor of my boss's office (god bless her) and it just gets worse. So, I take the afternoon off ("I gotta go home," I say) and hop on the #5 bus for the most excruciating bus ride I've ever taken. I've never enjoyed throwing up...never have from alcohol and rarely am that sick, but I was close. Head against the window, squinting, the Seattle Weekly curled up into an origami bucket, just in case. Got off near my house, wobbling, and it took me ten minutes to walk the three blocks to my place. Get into bed with a cold towel over my eyes and a large pan close by. I fall asleep. Becca brings me apple juice. I don't throw up. And now I feel fine. Back to work. The end.

I give a shout out to C Monster. My doctor, my dinner.

Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Myna zavut Pasha.

Well, I'm taking Russian. Any bets on how long this will last? My patience for homework is not legendary. In fact, it's not even legend. It's just dairy.

Maybe it's the time of year, but I've been really down on myself lately. Anyone else feel this? Not me, you jerk. Yourself. Human endeavor, it seems to me, should be slow and consistent, and punctuated with breaks for appreciation. Our modern life eliminates this as an option.

Maybe we should all sigh.

Pauls, From Ithaca, New York, via Wisconsin, Virginia, and NYC

Tuesday, September 03, 2002
It rained yesterday. The first downpour of the coming Fall. The dry grass says, "finally." I say, "at last."

This has been a weekend of living the American life. Going on water slides at Wild Waves (an aquatic leisure park), slapping asses at overcrowded bars, checking out the Evergreen State Fair ("Them some big cows! Sweeeet JESUS!"), but most importantly, attending a demolition derby at the Evergreen Speedway. I've haven't seen so many crushed cars since I last drove down to Portland and witnessed the aftermath of a ten car pileup in the opposite highway lane. Gawd DAMN! Picture eight school busses racing each other in a tight figure 8 track. BANG! SMASH! Digest that picture while I sit in my cubicle, recovering from the diesel fumes.