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Play the space bongos!

I am your guide to the bright blue partly cloudy world of Huset Park in 1988. Visit the moon. Visit it with your eyes and let your eardrums be rattled by the bark of a dog.

Not made in China.

What possessed me to walk 3 miles to the Cedar/Riverside light rail station tonight? I'm not sure. All I know is that I ran into Carly and Jeremy and his kid. Bizarre coincidence?

Tomorrow I think I'll be bored as hell.

The cop chase ended outside my place.

Lesley? That's what happens when you don't go home with someone from a club on St. Laurent. You remember the coincidences.

Phone card isn't working. Damn it. Neither is the route from Ural to Southern Europe. I've been doing that a lot these past two days. My toe. Precious toe. Oh, and a certain Japanese restaurant went down on my list today. Yep. That's what happens when you don't please certain people. When pizza is more fulfilling. When the one cocktail that you get is watery. How do people do happy hour every day? I just thought that I'd try one out with some cheap sushi. They must be drunk.

It was the age when studying your clan of migrating tribal misanthropes was to simmer my blood, and the hoist withdrawal. There you, fragile girl of a green head hair, were on the escalator with me. The hoist withdrawal. It made costs. The winter is and made the moon so come. They disappeared with you, but I wanted always that we were friends. I had too many pills of caffeine. Now, today I remain up to by end aroused from night. I do not call no more from my hotel to Wisconsin. I call my hotel. You fail, puzzle face is just a mess in our boxes.

Write of the excuses to them, others of now. It is too late, because they all are which will leave remote. Your heart is separated, unfortunately, and it is regrettable. It is loose them, you are only the left it seems, but really you must find and achieve the chain of the red. The secret garden of us flew away those will still develop, it is more like one forest of cocoon. Ask to the mother sea, a hand.

Yesterday I had the privilege of tasting Sichuan peppercorns (actually a small fruit) in a hot pot that consisted of lotus, potato, straw mushrooms, rice noodles, tofu skin, fresh crab, and a garlic vinegar and oil combo. This was thanks to Em's family and Emily and it was really damn good. The numbing effect on the mouth from the peppercorns in the hot pot is actually really bizarre and I loved the bitter and spicy taste. That flavor-combination was one of the most unique things that I've ever tasted. So was the cold fungus soup afterwards. Man. And my stomach really seemed to agree with the oily food and later jelly-like dishes for some reason.

The slasher movie "Slumber Party Massacre" was hilarious, and I liked the jean jacket killer, victims who don't know how to open a front door, and the character who was socially unwanted for drinking too much milk. This was followed by two interesting programs, one on male breasts and lactation, and another on broken penises. You never know what's going to happen at Em's house on a Saturday evening.

I was in such a damned depressed, burnt-out mood prior to last night. Now I feel like a happy-go-lucky clown on a balancing beam. I'll either fall off, or the show will have to end. But at least I'm a damn scary, molestation clown.

There will be a bunch of pillars down the road, I swear, dude.

On Thursday I stopped by the library during what was to become a very busy day. I picked up a bunch of books on Japan and the language of it. One in particular seemed somewhat generic, somewhat goofy, and somewhat 80's. Remembering the Hiragana claimed to teach you the entire primary syllabary of the tongue of Japan in three non-consecutive hours. Unusually, as I've found since Friday, it works. The premise seemed like a "As Seen On T.V." product for Manga geeks, and I cannot currently count myself among them. I now know all of the characters in this set!

Otherwise on Friday I led my sisters throughout the University of Minnesota campus and explained college to them. It was worth it, but it re-opened my foot wound on the big toe. That night I also made measurements for my apartment, brought the wrong set of keys home, returned them, came back, and cleaned my place with Death until 4AM.

Beethoven's Symphony #7 Allegretto vs AC DC's Hell's Bells. It's like a music duel. As in The Saddest Music In the World.

Beethoven wins.

Seeing a title like that above, you usually expect the person writing one of these damn blogs to ramble about how they lost their girlfriend or about how life sucks. I think that when someone admits defeat rather than lets it overwhelm them, it's usually a victory of sorts. Unless they get their head cut off.

Such decapitation happened tonight, but only in a fictional context. Tonight I saw an amusing play put on by my friend Chris, and while it wasn't a flop, it reminded me of my own failures over the years. It was probably just the punk-rock, from-scratch ethic that his troupe displayed. It was a nice thing to see on a Sunday, damn it.

In theater there is less to lose than in film, both money-wise and reputation-wise. I realized tonight that I probably should have just put on a show with one of my stories somewhere on a stage. Unfortunately 18-year-old idealism and over-ambition made me grab a video camera, and I went too far with my own money and the time of other people. Now I have a weird-looking relic of half-realized stories on digital video, and another on hi-def unedited and unused. And I finally lost that damn idealism.

I don't think about it very often. Certainly not every day. I've moved on.

I'm moving on from many things these days..

Last night I found myself in a theater after a very crabby day watching an extraordinary movie with a few flaws. It was March of the Penguins. I had some suspicious thoughts that the film had been tainted by Americanization after seeing that it was originally a French documentary.

Morgan Freeman was cool, but whoever wrote his script wrote some pretty cheesy lines. For some reason someone told me that Samuel L. Jackson was the narrator, which would have been more interesting maybe.

The soundtrack sucked! It was a terrible flute-ridden American romance soundtrack. Guess what? The French version has been out on Region 2 DVD since early July, and it has an award-winning electronic soundtrack! Why the stupid American studio canned it, I can only guess.

But anyway, there are more positives than negatives to this film. Seeing Emperor Penguins waddling for cold days and nights on end is more interesting than you'd think. The baby penguins are of course the best part of the movie. And I am actually surprised that penguins DO swim as fast as they did in the picture. Overall it was a hypnotic, sweet film.

Work right now though. Meh.

I know that I should be asleep right now, and under many tests I probably am. The week and a half of work is finished. And while my days are numbered and dedicated and such, I still leave in the middle of this ghostly state after midnight. Also, I look forward to songs that express tension openly and beautifully. Motionless in the glow.

This is a fractured mindset very late, "good-old college days", "you're the one who called it off", and other ringing little bits of dialogue. C'mon, c'mere, can't. Cass'? How're ye'?

Tonight, "I don't want to live in fiction." I guess that was a comparision; it was an attempt to explain to a good friend what I didn't share in common with him and some others. I have to stick to this reality that I have grown so fond of. At least I still had camaraderie with this gentleman.

I am content as the situation with friendships is unlikely to deteriorate much more. The possible disasters are miniscule. The future earthquakes are little. I have a few good pals, and they understand me quite clearly at this point. I've made the rounds with my speech. I just have to continue the policy, and continue to meet new people.

Outlook: good, thank you magic 8-ball. Autumn won't be bad, and I have splendid vibes. Last year I had the same, and it turned out to be an accurate assessment.

But I see a terrible possibility for my troubled friar - this man may end up a lone, sad Steppenwolf. That book has changed me; it helps me to realize what is cerebral and what isn't. What the solutions are that I overlook to loneliness and hostility. But taking my friend to the beginning of an amusement park rollercoaster and shoving him in a boxcar isn't going to work. I have to ease him in without overemphasizing the thrill and intensity of the bumps and drops... and he still has to step in.

Five O'Clock, that instills sympathy. Marcus Aurelius and his stoicism is a more pleasant thing to think about.

I feel poisoned and this day is like gorgeous red flowers on flattened cardboard boxes.

I'm listening to some classical Bach, Fantomas, and grandma and then there is this other record that I'm trying to find but it is only in import man! Yeah.

This morning I had a feast for lunch. Some tofu thing and then corn on the cob made it on to the plate. And I'm sipping up cold press as usual. Today is noticeably:

FREE OF TEENAGE ANXIETY

I don't know if they were sent to the internment camps or what. But the wind flows so smoothy. The humid air may have killed them. It could have been possessed by a demon, and then went into their noses and ripped out their brains with its moisture. And there are floating brains up there, aren't there? No that's a bird.

Glorious WOUNDS!

August rolls along. I feel as if it is already halfway through the month. It's not though. This weekend is one of festivals. I forgot! The show. At the Acadia. Oh I must go now. What was a kind invitation is now an iguana. The powers of the evolution-progressing female hand proved themselves once again! At least it isn't spanking anyone.

Why exactly did the nymphomaniac woman with the pretty eyes forget?

Le vent knows the music that he will be dancing to.

And marbles roll from one tube into the next.

The encyclopedia of a four-year-old boy sits on a concrete ledge next to the path.

Fluffy snow sticks to my jeans and melts when I trot down the wooden walkways to the cabin's inside, where my hot apartment is full of trees. The wind has not picked up, les arbres have not dirtied my carpet and tile with their dead leaves. I get on my best brown outfit which hangs on a branch. It is time to take a walk to the community dining hall. I head back out the entrance into late January. The nearby stream's water, slowly moving underneath exposed ice, is a reflective charcoal gray.

Next to the door are three comedians. They lean on the brick of the large building with a pitched roof. I open the thick red door.

Again, inside is outside. I am stuck in a storm. I am in fact stuck inside what I think is a tsunami. Soon perhaps I will drown.

My eyes open and I feel a fish wiggling in my pocket. When I stand up, the salty ocean water leaks out of my garments onto the smooth white flooring. The fish twists his way out. I am at the urgent care in the hospital, sitting. It is my own curtained examination room. Tiny crustaceans squirm out of my pant legs. Shadows of short people collect behind my curtain. Their hands move up against it, probing the space inside, meandering through the air in my room. Dozens of youthful hands grope my person. All of my clothes are soaked. I think that there is still sea life underneath them.

In a hurry, I twist loose the knob on the side of my torso and open it up. Sea turtles inside are trying to get the fans back on. They do successfully, and hide behind my organ doors. The fans blow away reality, and a caterpillar crawls out of my ear. He unscrews my head. It topples off of the body and is caught up in the breeze.

My head rolls next to another body of mine on top of a hill. The arms from that one pick it up. I walk up to a good vantage point. At first, I try to stand like Napoleon on a battlefield in some over-dramaticized painting. But I give that up within seconds, and instead revert to the posture of a sad boy visiting le parc du Mont-Royal.