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Oh I'm Singin' The "I Miss Channel 24 Blues"

2003-02-16 - 2:20 p.m.

Mood: Procrastinatingly Nostalgic

Listening To: Nirvana, Cake, Sifl & Olly, Ray Charles

Quote: "Now those are some classic New York Boobs!" - Dave Chappelle

Ahhh, Sunday. Sunday. Lazy Sunday. I actually got to sleep in a little bit this morning. Heaven. Well, I didn't really get to sleep-in in the traditional sense. I got woken up by Ben's incessant rummaging around 8, and then fell back asleep on the couch until 10. The couch is where I slept all of last night. Why? Well, I'll tell you why. Because when I came home last night, I had to deal with the after effects of yet another of Ben's Home Beautiful projects. Ok, ok. It's not that extravagant - it's called putting the insulation in the walls. But this place is so fucking old that if you just look at the walls they start to crumble. And Benny boy didn't cover any of the shit in my room. So when I came home, EVERYTHING was covered in a layer of dust, dirt, random nails, sheet rock, etc. It was pretty sweet. He apologized for it, and said he'd take care of it today. He wasn't being lame, he really did forget about it (I will explain why momentarily). But the point was, due to it being insanely dusty in my room, I slept on the couch with visions of Jennifer Garner (who was hosting SNL) prancing in my brain. Prance Sydney, prance! So anyway. I went to vacuum my room today while Ben was at his dawn volleyball game. After I was about 3/4 done, I turned around and could barely see the door through the thick mist that was now pervading my room. Clearly, the vacuum bag was full and was now spitting all the shit back all over my room. Except not so clearly . . . as it was not full. Oh no! Even better! THERE WAS NO BAG IN IT AT ALL. Ben forgot to put a new one in. So I basically just took a leaf blower to all the crippy crap that was infesting my room . . . Do you know how hard it is to vacuum comics? Or a computer? Or an alarm clock?? DO you? I'll tell you. It's very difficult. So that's that. Oh, and the icing on the dusterific cake? Lost the inhaler. Sah-weet. . .

"I have a dustbuster for a head. And to think, you made fun of Drillman. I'm so lonely. So very lonely."

So the other day. I'm not sure which day it was. Middle of last week. Might have been Wednesday. I'm pretty sure it was Wednesday. Anyway, I was on my way to school and . . . no wait, it was Thursday. Yeah, definitely Thursday, because Kippy and Kappy were both at the Wallakers. So I'm coming up on to Rt. 4 at the end of my street (which isn't really the same Rt. 4 I used to live on, except it is, and if you try to figure out how it will only give you an ice cream headache. Trust me.) and, as always, it's a stop sign and yellow blinking light. So, WAY BEFORE the sign I start to put my brakes on, because - while I'm nowhere nervous as I used to be - I'm still a little overly cautious. Except I don't start to slow down. At all. My brakes lock up and I continue to slide on the snow towards the light/sign/intersection. The intersection where the speed limit through the light is 55 mph. Sweet. I'm starting to panic a little here and I've got like 8.9 tons of pressure per square inch bearing down on the brakes. Nothing. So I try to veer right, liking the run into a snowbank possibility over the get my car sliced into two pieces option by some oncoming Shaws truck. But it's too late. I'm already sliding into the intersection. (You don't get a ton of time to make precision decisions in this kind of situation) A van missed walloping me by about 10 feet. Which, if you don't know your feet, especially at 60 mph, is not a lot. So at this point, everything seems to be going in slow motion and I remember just pulling on my wheel to go right and get me out of the two highway lanes that I was currently straddling. Well, then everything broke into regular motion and I must have overcompensated because the next thing I knew I was barreling into the breakdown lane and launching up on to a snowbank. Sweet. So I sit there, only two wheels on the ground, at about a 50 degree angle, looking involuntarily askance at all the roadsters flying by me as my head rests against the window. I could not speak. Honestly. I tried to say something to remind myself I was still there and it just came out as " . . .meh . . .op" I don't know. So I finally, slowly, edged myself off the bank and then just sat there in park in the breakdown lane for like 5 minutes trying to get my bearings. Great way to start the day. Great. But it ended with Math. And as much as I normally hate math, it was a lovely pre-Valentine's Day exception this time. And no, I have no comment on the Abby/Carter proposal on the roof business. [And yes, in his attempt to be like me in every way, the once and former B-Slopp, Brad, got into an accident last night on his way home from Boston. He fell asleep at the wheel. And woke up to find himself launching off a guardrail. He fucked his tires and bumper up, and needed to get towed home, but he's fine now. I know he's just thrilled about needing to owe another blood debt to BTC {that's Belknap Tire Company for all you jobo's just tuning in} and I know he's horribly worried about how Conner's going to get home from baseball practice. Except he's not. At all.]

So dusty. So motherfucking dusty. I'm sneezing like a motherfucker. Did I also happen to mention . . . motherfucker. As Ben's legs dangle dangerously from the gaping hole in the ceiling he likes to call "the attic", I was just forced to take my sock off and wipe all the dust that's accumulated on the monitor SINCE I STARTED TYPING THIS. And I don't want to put the sock back on because it's all dusty. And now my foot is cold. And now Ben's power-sawing 15 feet to the left of me. And now it smells like wood room at MMS. And I don't want any of my belongings smelling anything close to Garside. Seriously, I feel like I'm eating Pop Rock's every fucking time I inhale. Except I don't EVEN HAVE ANY POP ROCKS!

Dusty says: He feels like he's eating Pop Rocks. Except he doesn't even have any pop rocks.

I was googling people like a motherfucker yesterday. It was fun. That fucking "Cool Runnings" organization (no relation to the Jamaican Bobsled team) that charts like every single fucking race time from every running race that ever was comes up for almost everyone. I am a track star in 3 different states. Student Council president in Oklahoma! The real me rarely pops up. It's amazing how many of my friends are plastic surgeons. Unless of course you're Monique and Brett and are big and famous, then the real you comes up. When my NewsRadio book comes out and turns me into a famous author and expert on NewsRadio than damn Google won't even be able to contain me! Mostly because I'll have fed myself so many coffee shakes and canolis, but that's not the point.

I finally made myself a new tape for the Jeep. Sweet God. I'd been listening to the same 60 minute mix tape over and over (and over) since I first got the jeep. I love the mix and all, but I'm starting to hear it in my sleep. It's funny, I made it in '99 (thank god I have the foresight to date my tapes - helps the writing process - honest) and it's such a good snapshot of what was going on then. I was just starting to put a lot Talking Heads on mixes, as Frederick and I were listening to Sand in the Vaseline constantly as we played hour after hour of Bean Game. [Which, in reality, wasn't really Bean Game. You see, Bean Game was a spin-off of Sonic, which Keough owned that we first played like Freshman Year in Christensen. And our love affair with Beans and games with falling beans of differing colors was born. Kirby's Avalanche, which is what we were actually playing was the exact same thing as Dr. Robotnick's Mean Bean Machine, a.k.a. - "Bean Game", but it had different bosses {such as the terror-inducing Meta Knight, Mr. Shine & Mr. Bright, Paint Roller, and of course, Broomhatter). Kirby was a spin-off of Kirby, and thusly for the Super Nintendo and not for the Genesis, like Bean Game was. Got it? Good.] So what was I even talking about anyway? Oh yeah - the mix tape. It had Peter Gabriel, which Freddy was pushing on me at the time, and lots of clips from the Loch Ness Monster episode of South Park, which would please Coty and me to no end. And while it, thankfully, contains no Natalie Imbruglia, whenever I am waiting at the light in front of New Hampshire Hall on my way to A-Lot each morning, kicking out the jams in the car, I always think of how Marshall and I would hear "Torn" being played on the radio at that exact spot almost every morning. And how much we hated the song. And yet we'd sing along to every lyric. Funny, funny stuff. So anyway, I finally made a new tape, by burning a CD at home, bringing it to work and recording it to tape and placing said tape in my car where I could listen to it's melodious goodness. Isn't that wonderful? And don't think for a second that my new favorite song, "Techno Metroid" didn't make the list. Because it did. Make the list.

"Triple Meatball On That Ass Mista Postman!" [Ok, technically, that's no triple meatball by any stretch of the imagination, but there's only so many uniquely Armenian-tinged quotes that can apply themselves to Bean Game. Especially when we're dealing with fuckwads like Lololo and Lalala.]

I went and saw Daredevil Friday morning after class. I couldn't fathom others going to see a Marvel movie before me. I was first for X-Men and Spider-Man too. It was . . . good. But I had a lot of problems with it. It was short and you could tell. It seemed like there were too many scenes cut. I don't know. I need to see it again. Affleck was fine, and you know I loved Jennifer Garner. Colin Farrel as Bullseye was good, and Michael Clark Duncan did a fine job as Kingpin. I love Joe Pantaliano, and he was great as Ben Urich, but it seemed like his part really got shredded. I don't know, I'm sick of judging movies by what their DVD will eventually look like with deleted scenes and extras and the such. The dialogue was cringe worthy in some spots (i.e. - "Justice has been served." What, is this Judge Doom?) and I think Matt Murdock was WAY too lax with hiding his secret identity, which is something that Brian Michael Bendis is showing in his current run of Daredevil is far more important than people realize. The fight sequences were great (if not a little too underlit) and the way they showed how Matt "saw" things was cool. I liked the comic fan shout outs and I had a major geek attack during the Hulk preview and especially the X-Men 2 preview. I am extremely pumped over X-Men 2. I wanted to cry during the preview. I want to own it. The preview. That's how much I love it. So yeah. Daredevil is good. If your a comic fan it helps and hurts the movie. It's no Spider-Man (but really people, what is?), but it's already been reported that it's #1 for the weekend. So good for them. For you know, those people. Daredevil. Ok.

For those of you that are still in the least bit intrigued over how Ben forgot to clean up the mess upstairs that resembled 6 squirrels and a wooden Indian shoved in a Chipper, allow me to explain. As Phil, Andrea, Todd, Rex, 4 dogs, and myself were waiting for Ben to arrive in York last night for some good ol' fashioned, tape-worm inducin' Chinese Food, he was putting some "finishing touches" on his new Attic Project, or as I like to call it, Project Secret Annex. He was apparently on all fours in the crawlspace, tool in each hand, and the flashlight in his mouth. And then he lost his balance. And then he fell forward. And then the flashlight rammed itself against the roof of his mouth/throat. And cut him. And made him bleed. And produced inside his mouth a fleshy trap door of flesh that now hangs in his tonsilary area. A fact that he has reminded me of, oh . . . maybe 7 times this afternoon. And then I try to point out the irony in him trying to craft a trap door to the attic produced a trap door in his head. And then he just looks at me and says, "Where the fuck are my drill bits?! I know I left them in your room and now I can't find them. Find them for me." Sigh. Don Herbert and I suggested that next time he outfit himself in one of those stylish head light strappy things that the Wallakers sells. To think, Mr. Wizard in my own home! Wait until I tell my friends! Oh . . . I just did.

Tarun learns volcano building . . . Mr. Wizard Style!

Fuck this. The day's half shot and I've started none of my fucking homework. At least Alias isn't new tonight. Simpsons 300th Episode tonight though! (Even though I thought that was last week) Hooray for Simpsons! Not hooray for the goat shit that is King of the Hill! Anyway, I need to go find a new sock. Actually, first I need to take a shower. Then find a new sock. Then make some raviolis. Mmmmmmm, raviolis.

It's been real,

Heavy Mole

ps - If you have signed up for my Notify List (which is located at the upper left corner of this very screen) then I don't need to tell you about all the fun we're having! If you haven't! Oh me oh my . . . how sinful. You're really gonna need to get on that. Some of you have told me that you have only for me to plainly see that you have not. I'm thinking this was an accident and not as horrifically deceitful as it seems. Here's the thing. If you didn't get an e-mail from Notify List chock full of Notifying goodness and fun for this here entry you're reading - that there's a red flag. No signee upee. Anyway. Sign Up = Good. Not Sign Up = Lamey McLamerson.

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