To Brian, who is probably the only person who reads this anymore. And goodness knows, he has enough to do keeping his blog updated. It's far funnier than this, far more regularly updated, and let's face it -- better in every way.
He's also sane enough to restrict himself to the one blog, rather than the three I foolishly signed up for. See, I pale in respect to Brian in nearly every comprehensible way. I still pride myself on my hygiene.
His site will of course continue for ages and ages to come, so if anyone else comes by here, go his way. You won't regret it. If you do regret it, what can I say? Different strokes and all that.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Wrapping it up
I plan to draw this blog to a close at the end of February. That will be my sister's birthday, although the combination only struck me as I was typing out this post.
I don't have the time to devote to the blogs that I used to. Verse A Day, although updated somewhat less than daily, will chug along until the end of April, when it will be one year old. This blog already passed its first birthday, but I think I'll close up shop at the 15-month mark.
I plan to keep the site up, and hopefully replenish the archives with all the old posts that disappeared into the mists of time in October. I might even post. But truthfully I have the energy for one blog ... and it's Copy Massage. I'll probably post more about my life there after Feb. 29.
So why the advanced warning? Well, I want to keep things interesting. I want to post here. I want another chance to write about silly things before this outlet closes. So I'm drawing a line in the sand.
Get ready. This could get interesting.
I don't have the time to devote to the blogs that I used to. Verse A Day, although updated somewhat less than daily, will chug along until the end of April, when it will be one year old. This blog already passed its first birthday, but I think I'll close up shop at the 15-month mark.
I plan to keep the site up, and hopefully replenish the archives with all the old posts that disappeared into the mists of time in October. I might even post. But truthfully I have the energy for one blog ... and it's Copy Massage. I'll probably post more about my life there after Feb. 29.
So why the advanced warning? Well, I want to keep things interesting. I want to post here. I want another chance to write about silly things before this outlet closes. So I'm drawing a line in the sand.
Get ready. This could get interesting.
Perhaps / Per hat / Pear hot
EverQuest has been engaging. (Pregnant pause.) Perhaps too engaging.
Have also recently had cable installed. And picked up The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind (Game of the Year edition incorporating Tribunal and Bloodmoon). And, um ... we washed the dog.
Can things possibly get any more exciting?
Have also recently had cable installed. And picked up The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind (Game of the Year edition incorporating Tribunal and Bloodmoon). And, um ... we washed the dog.
Can things possibly get any more exciting?
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Heaven help me...
I've been purchasing EverQuest accessory volumes. Apparently I have the need to become geekier than I already am.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Where with all / wherewithal
Much has happened. Much involving EverQuest. Some involving work. All involving me running around. More soon. Maybe. If I feel like it.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Keep searching
I wonder if I helped any of these people.
"home theater" +"christmas lights"
a free graphic novel about jesus and buddha
pete jameson
characters thematic/analysis comedy
"quickplot software"
Songs for Dust Mites Album Full MP3
"a friend like you" "Brian wilson"
"steve burns" height
"rave moves"
Marlin Brando Michael Jackson music video
brian wilson new cd 2004
salon chomsky colorless
"saturn" "service engine soon"
"home theater" +"christmas lights"
a free graphic novel about jesus and buddha
pete jameson
characters thematic/analysis comedy
"quickplot software"
Songs for Dust Mites Album Full MP3
"a friend like you" "Brian wilson"
"steve burns" height
"rave moves"
Marlin Brando Michael Jackson music video
brian wilson new cd 2004
salon chomsky colorless
"saturn" "service engine soon"
Where novel junkies get their fix
Let's allow the novel to lead us on. These are the first few sections of the first chapter from "University of Doom!" I'm finally posting it because -- well -- why not? I haven't done much work on it since November ended, so let's see if this spurs me along.
Chapter One
I sat in Professor Jon p Brummer’s poetry class, studying my fingernails and waiting for Brummer to show. It was 8:35 a.m., five minutes after the official start of class. People were restless.
The comments:
“You think we should walk out?”
“Nah, give him another 10 minutes.”
“Man, I hate this class.”
A fat man in a police uniform scurried in. His badge said “Johnson.” His expression said “campus cop.” He pounded the lectern in front of the class.
“Your professor is dead,” he said.
-----
Impaled, to be exact. Professor Jon p Brummer was found by a member of the grounds crew, hanging from the horn of the Missouri State College mascot. “Wino the Rhino,” as students like to call him, defends the administration building.
His two-foot brass horn was plunged in Professor Jon p Brummer’s back. The professor’s body was covered in sheets of paper. The paper turned out, on closer examination, to be pages from the series of poetry books the Brummer wrote in the 70s.
The professor didn’t start out as an academic. He was a wannabe Bob Dylan at one point. Didn’t have the voice. So he started writing poetry, which most people at the time thought was horrible. Except for high school girls.
He told the class that he had sold 50 million copies of his books.
“The Romance of Desire” from 1970.
“I Love You Like Paris” from 1971.
“Flames of Passion” from 1973.
His books rolled off the presses as quickly as he could write them. He tired of the professional publishing world after 10 excruciating volumes. Either that or the books stopped selling. In either case, academia called. His money bought him an Ivy League degree and he set up shop here.
He loved his old, awful books. He would read from them every day. He would tell us we should write exactly the same way. Most of us would have preferred an awful death. His death, actually.
He was covered in the love of his life. His own flowery words. The expression on his face was inscrutable.
The expression on Wino’s face? Spirited.
-----
I had run from class to the administration building as soon as I could. Not out of prurient curiosity, you understand, although I had plenty of that. I’m a reporter for the Missouri State College Daily Record.
Correction: I’m a senior reporter.
Senior reporter Ted Lewisholm.
It’s my sixth year here. I’m not interested in becoming an editor or columnist or any of the jobs they fashion for upperclassmen. Most people burn out: reporting for a daily college paper doesn’t leave time for much else.
Pansies.
Not to leave the professor hanging, as it were, but people don’t give a damn about the news at universities. Their kids post grades above D’s, especially at a state school, they don’t give a damn. But the people who run these places get away with a lot.
That’s what I try to cover. No one else here does it as well as I do. Other people win the snazzy journalism prizes, with first-hand accounts of their navel-gazing. I’m out there actually scaring up stories. I don’t just know the administrator’s names.
I know the names of the people the administrators have affairs with.
I finished all the journalism classes they offered two years ago. I’m working on an English degree now so they’ll keep me around. That’s how I got in Brummer’s class.
-----
The scene around the body was crazed, of course. A TV crew. Dozens of students, mostly gawking. Campus cops trying to keep people away from the body.
The cops had erected a perimeter, with what seemed to be sticks torn from trees and duct tape. It was not working well. The tape sagged in parts. One girl tore off a piece to repair a corner of her Algebra textbook.
Professor Jon p Brummer kept hanging. He had always been a big guy — taller than six feet, with a well-fed gut. Now he just sagged. His blood had congealed into sticky red puddles. The pedestal was slick around Wino’s hooves.
The campus cops had no idea what to do. Surprise. Several just started at the body, mouths open, eyes darting from one side to the other. Others investigated by reading the poetry stuck to the professor’s body.
A siren.
Actual cop cars drove up. Actual cops hopped out of them.
“Who’s in charge here?” a tall policeman with a moustache asked.
A gigantic man stepped from behind Wino. Oh Christ. My stomach started to hurt, a reflex action against stupidity. That gigantic man would be “Sergeant” Bud Cohen, chief of campus security and the biggest bastard I’d ever met. On this campus, I’d met a few. Chief Bud had his own category.
“That would be me, Sonny,” he drawled. “Do you have something you want to say to me?”
The tall cop tapped his foot and looked disconcerted.
“Well, um. There seems to be a dead man here. We deal with this kind of thing.”
“Sonny, that’s right nice of you. Why, where would be without you telling us this critical information?”
“Er. We need to do our police things. Thanks for controlling the situation. ”
“You want to take this away, sonny? You want to take this case from me?”
Chapter One
I sat in Professor Jon p Brummer’s poetry class, studying my fingernails and waiting for Brummer to show. It was 8:35 a.m., five minutes after the official start of class. People were restless.
The comments:
“You think we should walk out?”
“Nah, give him another 10 minutes.”
“Man, I hate this class.”
A fat man in a police uniform scurried in. His badge said “Johnson.” His expression said “campus cop.” He pounded the lectern in front of the class.
“Your professor is dead,” he said.
-----
Impaled, to be exact. Professor Jon p Brummer was found by a member of the grounds crew, hanging from the horn of the Missouri State College mascot. “Wino the Rhino,” as students like to call him, defends the administration building.
His two-foot brass horn was plunged in Professor Jon p Brummer’s back. The professor’s body was covered in sheets of paper. The paper turned out, on closer examination, to be pages from the series of poetry books the Brummer wrote in the 70s.
The professor didn’t start out as an academic. He was a wannabe Bob Dylan at one point. Didn’t have the voice. So he started writing poetry, which most people at the time thought was horrible. Except for high school girls.
He told the class that he had sold 50 million copies of his books.
“The Romance of Desire” from 1970.
“I Love You Like Paris” from 1971.
“Flames of Passion” from 1973.
His books rolled off the presses as quickly as he could write them. He tired of the professional publishing world after 10 excruciating volumes. Either that or the books stopped selling. In either case, academia called. His money bought him an Ivy League degree and he set up shop here.
He loved his old, awful books. He would read from them every day. He would tell us we should write exactly the same way. Most of us would have preferred an awful death. His death, actually.
He was covered in the love of his life. His own flowery words. The expression on his face was inscrutable.
The expression on Wino’s face? Spirited.
-----
I had run from class to the administration building as soon as I could. Not out of prurient curiosity, you understand, although I had plenty of that. I’m a reporter for the Missouri State College Daily Record.
Correction: I’m a senior reporter.
Senior reporter Ted Lewisholm.
It’s my sixth year here. I’m not interested in becoming an editor or columnist or any of the jobs they fashion for upperclassmen. Most people burn out: reporting for a daily college paper doesn’t leave time for much else.
Pansies.
Not to leave the professor hanging, as it were, but people don’t give a damn about the news at universities. Their kids post grades above D’s, especially at a state school, they don’t give a damn. But the people who run these places get away with a lot.
That’s what I try to cover. No one else here does it as well as I do. Other people win the snazzy journalism prizes, with first-hand accounts of their navel-gazing. I’m out there actually scaring up stories. I don’t just know the administrator’s names.
I know the names of the people the administrators have affairs with.
I finished all the journalism classes they offered two years ago. I’m working on an English degree now so they’ll keep me around. That’s how I got in Brummer’s class.
-----
The scene around the body was crazed, of course. A TV crew. Dozens of students, mostly gawking. Campus cops trying to keep people away from the body.
The cops had erected a perimeter, with what seemed to be sticks torn from trees and duct tape. It was not working well. The tape sagged in parts. One girl tore off a piece to repair a corner of her Algebra textbook.
Professor Jon p Brummer kept hanging. He had always been a big guy — taller than six feet, with a well-fed gut. Now he just sagged. His blood had congealed into sticky red puddles. The pedestal was slick around Wino’s hooves.
The campus cops had no idea what to do. Surprise. Several just started at the body, mouths open, eyes darting from one side to the other. Others investigated by reading the poetry stuck to the professor’s body.
A siren.
Actual cop cars drove up. Actual cops hopped out of them.
“Who’s in charge here?” a tall policeman with a moustache asked.
A gigantic man stepped from behind Wino. Oh Christ. My stomach started to hurt, a reflex action against stupidity. That gigantic man would be “Sergeant” Bud Cohen, chief of campus security and the biggest bastard I’d ever met. On this campus, I’d met a few. Chief Bud had his own category.
“That would be me, Sonny,” he drawled. “Do you have something you want to say to me?”
The tall cop tapped his foot and looked disconcerted.
“Well, um. There seems to be a dead man here. We deal with this kind of thing.”
“Sonny, that’s right nice of you. Why, where would be without you telling us this critical information?”
“Er. We need to do our police things. Thanks for controlling the situation. ”
“You want to take this away, sonny? You want to take this case from me?”
Saturday, January 10, 2004
One assumes ...
... There were some thoughts / thunk / thudded round here, right?
Yeah, that's the ticket. We can tell cause of the poems, and the writings, and the way he ...
Well, the way he circles round and round, see? Sure, that's the way we can tell. Sometimes things can be hidden just like so. Six years or eight years or 10 years ... or no years at all.
Much changes, yet nothing changes. And the blog is the same, my stars yes. Well, mostly the same. A towering edifice of data / words / days. And archived.
Make sure of that.
Yeah, that's the ticket. We can tell cause of the poems, and the writings, and the way he ...
Well, the way he circles round and round, see? Sure, that's the way we can tell. Sometimes things can be hidden just like so. Six years or eight years or 10 years ... or no years at all.
Much changes, yet nothing changes. And the blog is the same, my stars yes. Well, mostly the same. A towering edifice of data / words / days. And archived.
Make sure of that.
Tuesday, January 6, 2004
Saturday, January 3, 2004
Search engine mania
They're visiting Rant/Rave/Reassure! But how? Let's see.
"rave moves"
eggnog drink
organize rave
nigeria barristers
claymcc
discovery rave clothes store
departure scan purpose
Solo Rave 2003
elliot smith oh well, okay song meaning
elliot smith oh well, okay means i got pictures, i just don't see it anymore
steve burns height
Apartment Rant Florida
"rave moves"
eggnog drink
organize rave
nigeria barristers
claymcc
discovery rave clothes store
departure scan purpose
Solo Rave 2003
elliot smith oh well, okay song meaning
elliot smith oh well, okay means i got pictures, i just don't see it anymore
steve burns height
Apartment Rant Florida
Friday, January 2, 2004
Hello 2004!
You seem a lot like the year that just left. At least right now. But I'll give you a chance. Perhaps you'll grow on me.
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