I never lie.

How does poetry reflect the soul of the poet?

Thu, 21 Dec 2006 04:45:15 GMT

This is a poem I wrote, with my brother laughing at my side, on April 2, 2002 when I was a senior in high school. I still laugh every time I read it, and I apologize in advance if you are grossed out by bodily functions humor. Everyone who knows me really well knows how much I laugh about these kinds of things.

//

Feces

Open up the drain
The contents of the mind
The Mind of the collective
Swirling through the deep
Putrid
Gangrenous
Fetid
Steaming ecstasy
Flush, flush, flush
Break your fingers on the handle
Shattered skull on the tank
Appendages in the vortex
Soul returns to the Earth

Reading is Fulfillment

Thu, 16 Mar 2006 05:57:31 GMT

I just finished The Handmaid's Tale tonight after a few months of sporadic reading. I started it over Christmas break when I was at staying Christie's house while working for ALO. I really wish I could have finished it all in one sitting, but I'm just glad to have finished it at all. My God, that was an incredible book. It's one of those stories that horrifies you and makes you want more at the same time. Atwood wrote it in 1986, and 20 years later it seems even more like a near future than it could have while Eastern Europe was still behind the Iron Curtain. The raw power of her style really wrapped me up; the way she was colloquial and intensely intellectual at the same time was really wonderful. I am not just a feminist, I am a humanist, and reading The Handmaid's Tale makes me want to become President so I can prevent things from burning to the ground. The more I think about it, the more I feel like the Peace Corps will be an intensely powerful experience in my life. I can't wait to go somewhere. Else. At least for awhile.

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 21:32:46 GMT

Amigos Improbables

Dramatis personae
Una barbera, Rebecca
El Capitán Torres, Bhavik
Una revolucionaria, Ashley
Un mendigo, Neal
La voz del muchacho muerto Peres, Teo

The scene begins with Torres just as he is walking out of the barber’s shop. The revolutionary, self-sure and cocky, is hiding in the shadows. The beggar, obviously having a hard time not picking his nose, is feigning knowledge of arcane philosophy nearby. There is a well DC, and a trashcan UL.

El Capitán (From the threshold, into the barbershop) Me habían dicho que usted me mataría. Vine para comprobarlo. Pero matar no es fácil. Yo sé por qué se lo digo.
La barbera (Gritando) Yo soy la barbera más perfecta del mundo. ¡¡Del MUNNNDO!! Cuando tuvo la oportunidad, podia matarle al Capitán. ¿Por qué? Porque soy una barbera perfecta. (Huffs back inside)
El mendigo (To the Capitán, like Hulk Hogan) ¡Hola, hermano! Yo soy pobre. Qué triste. Necesito dinero porque soy mendigo y nada más. No soy cantador o alguién del gobierno.
El Capitán (Bitingly) Habla a la mano. No tengo dinero, perdedor. Mi caballo apesta en su dirección general.
La revolucionaria (Aside) La barbera no podría hacerlo, pero lo mataré. (To the Capitán, trying to lure him, con voz sexy) ¡Hola, Capitán! Necesito ayuda para tomar agua del pozo.
El mendigo (Also to the Capitán) Me gusta el olor de su caballo. Bien, de la cula de su caballo. ¿Ha pensado que puede ganar dinero si vende el olor que brota de su caballo? (Awkward pause) Hay muchas arterias cerca de la cula…
La barbera (Singing, como Beck) Soy un perdedor(a). (Speaking again) No puedo perdonarme. (Threatening herself with her razor) ¡Espero que esta flecha de plata será el fin y el comienzo! (She cuts at her wrist, writhing in pain)
El mendigo Una barbera y una poeta. ¡Que deliciosa!
El Capitán (Using his finger for a mustache, aside) Mmmm, una damisela con las dientes rectas. Me gustan las muchachas que tienen todas sus dientes. (To la revolucionaria) No hay una mujer en todo el mundo que puede resistir la mágica de este bigote. Bien, ¿qué tipo de ayuda necesitó usted? (Winks suggestively)
La revolucionaria (Whispers something in his ear)
El Capitán ¡Repugnante! Pienso que voy a vomitar… (He ralphs in the trashcan in the corner)
La revolucionaria (Condescendingly) ¡Estoy orgullosa que no hago eso (Very strong emphasis) con cadáveres, como tú!
El Capitán ¡Te mataré con la yema de mi dedo! Eres una temptadora infame. Ahora, besame… (He puckers his lips for the kiss of his life)
El mendigo (With an air of nostalgia) ¡Soy Drácula, y convertiré la tierra a polvo con la sangre de sus niños! (He starts drinking from the pool of the barbera’s blood)
El Capitán y La revolucionaria ¡Cállate!
El mendigo (Shaking his head in despair) Trato de hacer cosas interesantes…
La revolucionaria (In the most disgusting way possible) El muchacho muerto Peres (MMP) tiró en el pozo ayer…
La voz del MMP (In the style of Monty Python) ¡No estoy muerto todavía!
El Capitán y La revolucionaria ¡Cállate!
La barbera (Now fully transformed into a zombie, twitching) Murgphar…
El Capitán ¡Santa Maria, ella está desempolvada!
La barbera Soy…glarphlogmurh…la Reina (Aside) con un ‘r’ capitál (Normal dialogue) …phlorgakle…del pueblo…
La revolucionaria Espero que está usando un dentífrico.
El Capitán (Shrugs) Nadie está perfecto.
El mendigo ¡Solo un hombre-lobo puede matarme!
El Capitán y La revolucionaria ¡Cállate!
La barbera (At the same time) ¡Frlarguka…!
El mendigo Madre mia, ustedes estan incorregible. (Long pause, G.P.) Me gusta carne de cerdo…
(El Capitán, la revolucionaria, y la barbera run screaming DL, and in the barber’s case, gurgling)
El mendigo Nadie está perfecto.
(He stabs himself with the barber’s silver blade and dies)

El Fin

Written by Rebecca Batlan, Bhavik Kumar, and Neal Mann on July 13, 2004 for Profesor Jobe’s Spanish IV class.

Oral Projections

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 20:30:00 GMT

My friend Fernando Ruiz and I did a Spanish oral presentation together our senior year of high school. We had played soccer together for three or four years starting in middle school, and we joked a lot about all things "Mexican." He had grown up speaking Spanish, but he was perfectly fluent in English. I eventually earned the title of Honorary Catholic Mexican, which was just a farce of course, but I always wondered if anyone thought I was actually initiated into some kind of Mexican brotherhood. We also talked about Univision (the Spanish TV station) on numerous occasions, and we poked fun at Don Fernando, the big Sábado Gigante personality. Santana and Don Silvestre Aguilar were characters in a terrible series of episodes chronicling the life of La Catrina, the pseudo-fictional Mexican figure who had something to do with the Mexican Revolution. Santana was a private eye with an egregious underbite and a lovely accent. It's hard to describe in words just how it sounds, but it's like a cross between Marlon Brando's Don Corleone and an Uruk-hai from The Lord of the Rings films. He was shadowing the main character, Jaime, to see what she was up to. Don Silvestre Aguilar was some sort of politician who was trying to figure out who this girl was, since she was going to inherit some land or something, and he had interest in it. Santana was a wholly lovable character, while Aguilar was despicable. Here's what we came up with. I included a translation that I just did in red, so it might be lacking since I haven't done anything related to Spanish translation since last summer.

Proyecto Oral

Dramatis Personae
Santana
Henchman of Don Silvestre Aguilar

Henchman sits at a table, drinking Corona. He is flustered because Don Silvestre has threatened to murder his children and disconnect his cable so that he cannot watch Univision unless he kills Santana. Enter Santana, who sneaks in and falls over the table. Henchman draws a knife.

Henchman: ¡En el nombre de Don Francisco, yo te entajo con esta navaja!
Santana: ¡Espera! Podemos hacer un trato.
Henchman: ¡Imposible!
Santana: Tengo cinco dólares para ti, y un pepino.
Henchman: ¡No! Espero que te lastimes.
Santana: Necesitas chocar con el coche para componer tú cara. Ahora, escuchame, por favor. ¿Por qué quiere matarme Don Silvestre?
Henchman: No sé, pero mezclaré tú ingredientes si no mueres.
Santana: ¿Que dijiste? No tengo ingredientes, porque los puse en el lavatorio esta mañana.
Henchman: Don Silvestre me dijo que morirías si mezclaba tú mayonesa con chile.
Santana: ¡Chile! ¡No pienses que puedes poner chile en mi mayonesa! Si Don Francisco habia oido eso, el pelaría tus cebollas.
Henchman: Mis cebollas ya están peladas y ya están aliñando la ensalada para mi cabrito. ¿Podrías morirte para que pueda comer con mi cabrito?
Santana: No, necesitas comer alimentos sanos, evitar los antojitos, y tener una dieta equilibrada con ajo, cilantro, mostaza, orégano, limón, y cocaína. ¿Que talla de vestido?
Henchman: Mi talla es tres, pero no importa. ¿Donde esta el Tang? Quiero cortar tú dedo en la tapa.
Santana: Quería que supieras que no tengo dedos. ¡Cortame, si puedes!
Henchman: Perdí mi navaja en la ensalada mientras estaba lambiendo la mesa. No podría haber cortadote como quiera.
Santana: ¿Qué tipo de Mexicano eres? Todos los Mexicanos Católicos tienen navajas, especialmente jugadores de fútbol que son Mexicanos Católicos.
Henchman: ¡Lo reconozco! ¡Cayate!
Santana: ¿Eres un Mexicano de verdad?
Henchman: ¡Estoy llorando porque nunca seré un Mexicano Católico! ¿Donde esta el baño? Necesito jabón para poder alimentar mi cabrito.
Santana: He comido todo el jabón en el baño. Hay papel de baño apestoso que puedes usar.
Henchman: He recetado pastillas por cincuenta años en este día. ¡Con estas pastillas, tomo mi vida!

Henchman: In the name of Don Francisco, I stab you with this knife!
Santana: Wait! We can make a deal.
Henchman: Impossible!
Santana: I have five bucks for you, and a cucumber.
Henchman: No! I hope that you die.
Santana: You need to have a car wreck to fix your face. Now, listen up, please. Why does Don Silvestre want to kill me?
Henchman: I don’t know, but I will mix your ingredients if you don’t die.
Santana: What did you say? I don’t have any ingredients because I put them in the toilet this morning.
Henchman: Don Silvestre told me that you would die if I mixed your mayonnaise with chili peppers.
Santana: Peppers! Don’t think you can put peppers into my mayonnaise! If Don Francisco had heard that, he would have peeled your onions.
Henchman: My onions are already peeled and are dressing my little goat’s salad. Would you die already so I can eat with my goat?
Santana: No, you need to eat healthy food, avoid little snacks, and have a balanced diet with garlic, cilantro, mustard, oregano, lemon, and cocaine. What’s your dress size?
Henchman: I’m a size three, but that doesn’t matter. Where’s the Tang? I want to cut your finger on the lid.
Santana: You should have known that I don’t have fingers. Cut me, if you can!
Henchman: I lost my knife in the salad while I was licking the table. I couldn’t have cut you if I had wanted to.
Santana: What kind of Mexican are you? All Catholic Mexicans have knives, especially Catholic Mexican soccer players.
Henchman: I know that! Shut up!
Santana: Are you really Mexican?
Henchman: I’m crying because I’ll never be a Catholic Mexican! Where’s the bathroom? I need soap to feed my goat.
Santana: I have eaten all the soap in the bathroom. There’s stinky toilet paper that you can use.
Henchman: I’ve taken prescription medications for five years as of today. With these pills, I take my life!

Henchman gives blank stare and then falls lifeless to the floor. Santana smiles.
THE EnD

Bringin' home the Bacon

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 04:28:58 GMT

My senior year of high school marked my entry into Senior English, that dreaded but necessary last step out of the dank dungeon of high school. *ugh ugh* The nitre! We read a few of Sir Francis Bacon's Essays, properly titled The Essayes or Counsels, Civill and Morall of Francis Bacon. http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/%7Erbear/bacon.html We took to reading a few of them, but we were to model our own short essay on Bacon's collection. I remember reading Of Love, which I have included below.

"The stage is more beholding to love, than the life of man. For as to the stage, love is ever matter of comedies, and now and then of tragedies; but in life it doth much mischief; sometimes like a siren, sometimes like a fury. You may observe, that amongst all the great and worthy persons (whereof the memory remaineth, either ancient or recent) there is not one, that hath been transported to the mad degree of love: which shows that great spirits, and great business, do keep out this weak passion. You must except, nevertheless, Marcus Antonius, the half partner of the empire of Rome, and Appius Claudius, the decemvir and lawgiver; whereof the former was indeed a voluptuous man, and inordinate; but the latter was an austere and wise man: and therefore it seems (though rarely) that love can find entrance, not only into an open heart, but also into a heart well fortified, if watch be not well kept. It is a poor saying of Epicurus, Satis magnum alter alteri theatrum sumus: as if man, made for the contemplation of heaven, and all noble objects, should do nothing but kneel before a little idol and make himself a subject, though not of the mouth (as beasts are), yet of the eye; which was given him for higher purposes. It is a strange thing, to note the excess of this passion, and how it braves the nature, and value of things, by this; that the speaking in a perpetual hyperbole, is comely in nothing but in love. Neither is it merely in the phrase; for whereas it hath been well said, that the arch-flatterer, with whom all the petty flatterers have intelligence, is a man's self; certainly the lover is more. For there was never proud man thought so absurdly well of himself, as the lover doth of the person loved; and therefore it was well said, That it is impossible to love and to be wise. Neither doth this weakness appear to others only, and not to the party loved; but to the loved most of all, except the love be reciproque. For it is a true rule, that love is ever rewarded, either with the reciproque, or with an inward and secret contempt. By how much the more, men ought to beware of this passion, which loseth not only other things, but itself! As for the other losses, the poet's relation doth well figure them: that he that preferred Helena, quitted the gifts of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of amorous affection, quitteth both riches and wisdom. This passion hath his floods, in very times of weakness; which are great prosperity, and great adversity; though this latter hath been less observed: both which times kindle love, and make it more fervent, and therefore show it to be the child of folly. They do best, who if they cannot but admit love, yet make it keep quarters; and sever it wholly from their serious affairs, and actions, of life; for if it check once with business, it troubleth men's fortunes, and maketh men, that they can no ways be true to their own ends. I know not how, but martial men are given to love: I think, it is but as they are given to wine; for perils commonly ask to be paid in pleasures. There is in man's nature, a secret inclination and motion, towards love of others, which if it be not spent upon some one or a few, doth naturally spread itself towards many, and maketh men become humane and charitable; as it is seen sometime in friars. Nuptial love maketh mankind; friendly love perfecteth it; but wanton love corrupteth, and embaseth it." -Bacon

As for my own essay, I titled it, as simply as Bacon would have, Of Roses.

"Roses serve for delight, for ornament, and for affection. Their chief use for delight is in the aroma and radiance; for ornament, is in beautification; and for affection, is in the pouring forth of love. For smitten men can show their love with words and lewd looks; but the man enraptured by love shows his affection with gentle roses. To spend too much on roses is natural; to use them too often for affection is misuse; to see love only by their presence is the humor of fools. They perfect nature and are perfected by experience; for pure love is like a young seed which needs tender nurturing; and nurturing gives forth only superficial care through affection without experience of the soul. Cold men loathe roses; simple men admire them; and loving men kiss their lovers' lips with them: For they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by peering into the soul." -Mann

Thoreau meets Mann

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 04:10:44 GMT

As all Texas high schoolers do, I read a nice survey of American literature in my junior year. We were asked to write a précis (a French word meaning "precise," but used in English to describe a precise, written summary) for the first paragraph of "The Bean-Field," the 7th chapter from Thoreau's Walden. http://www.transcendentalists.com/walden_bean_field.htm Below is the original from that book.

"Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be put off. What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted. They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like Antaeus. But why should I raise them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious labor all summer -- to make this portion of the earth's surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet wild fruits and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse. What shall I learn of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe them, early and late I have an eye to them; and this is my day's work. It is a fine broad leaf to look on. My auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the most part is lean and effete. My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new foes." -Thoreau

I've been sorting through lots of old papers lately, and I found the précis that I wrote. I liked it enough on second reading to put here.

"Though my beans required of me great toils, and there were miles upon miles of them, I loved them all the greater. They brought me closer to the earth and nature. I revile the creatures that destroy the fruits of my labor, but what right had I to replace the natural vegetation with my beans? All my labors were directed toward my knowing beans. In the process of getting to know beans, I realized that I was the great defender and aggressor in a war for my beans and against nature's own. But what could nature's own have showed me if I had not been so stalwart in defending my beans?" -Mann

United Democratic Peoples' Republic of Capitalism, Inc.*

Fri, 22 Jul 2005 05:11:46 GMT

* Does not actually imply democracy, fairness, morality, or any other sought-after attribute.

Tonight was conspiracy night. First, while I was checking people out at my register, I saw a po-po walk over to the Service Desk with a manager. I didn't know what was going on because my line of sight wasn't very good, so I asked around, and no one seemed to know. Later, I found out that someone had tried to return an item that had been stolen. Smart move.

The best part was when I saw a female coworker waiting next to a door. Now, this doesn't sound very exciting, but I had never actually noticed this door before. On the grocery side in our Wal-Mart, there is a small game room in the vestibule that divides inside from out. Right inside the inner door, on the other side of the portrait studio where the photo lab used to be, there is another game room with other kinds of games. It has in big, crazy letters, "Family Fun Center." Pretty much the only people over there are little kids going ballistic while their parents are being turned into capitalist zombies. A pretty innocuous place overall. Now, on the back wall of this children's sanctum is the door I mentioned, and I soon observed four male managers walking briskly toward the door. They unlocked it, and all five of them went inside. A little later, another po-po knocked and went into the same door. Now, there are four managers, a female cashier, and a man of the law inside this mysterious room. Creepy?

Later I learned that another someone had been caught shoplifting, and they were being held there. I didn't know it until today, but apparently Wal-Mart has its own system of miniature prisons that it keeps suspects held in indefinitely. It's like a little slice of international neutral territory within each store where suspects can be interrogated. It's also the place where all of the security equipment is held. I couldn't help thinking about Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Granted, shoplifting is wrong, but creeping me out is just as wrong.

Abject thievery

Sat, 16 Jul 2005 06:24:58 GMT

After I had eaten dinner and gone back to work, I was informed that I might encounter a Puerto Rican fellow who was trying to buy a television. A few minutes later an affable young gentleman in his mid-20s comes up to me with a blue flatcart (one of those big things you see cart pushers hauling things outside on) with a nice, mammoth TV on it. He tells me how cool it looks, he asks me what I think about it, and he tries really hard to be cool. I asked him how he wanted to pay for it; since I was running the self-checkout line, I needed to finish quickly in case other customers needed assistance. He replied that he would use a check, and he said that the two previous people at the helm of self-check had talked to him earlier. Now, if a purchase over $200 is made with a check, the person must present a valid ID and actually be the person on the check. So, he pulls out a leather checkbook/organizer and gives me a check with some woman's name on it. He shows me her driver's license, social security card, etc. and feeds me a story of how she's her girlfriend, how she got sick and had to leave, and how he was going to just use her check. Of course this is all very suspicious, so I called my CSM over and she in turn called a manager. Bobby, the manager, politely explained to this purported Puerto Rican (he didn't look it) that he could only purchase the TV with a check that was in his name. The Puerto Rican gentleman was very understanding and left without incident.

Had this man stolen the checks and identity cards of this woman, or was his story genuine? I cannot know. But this got me thinking: why do people steal? Surely some do it for the rush, but I don't think most do. I think most people are motivated by the desire the object of their thievery unfolds in their minds. Just why is it that this man wanted that new television? Would it be that much better to watch reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter on that new set? Would he show it off to his friends? Of course he would, but why would they be impressed? It seems to me that the machinations of the advertising agencies of the world have convinced people that the latest incarnation of one product or another will serve to fulfill a person. That somehow, that new spot-free rinse dishwasher or iPod mini will fill up the emptiness inside. But it doesn't seem like that will ever happen, and it doesn't seem that we need advertisers to make people want other peoples' things. So, stealing has to be a social construct, for without other people, who would we steal from? I guess the idea of stealing came around sometime near the time that people started saying that this or that rock was mine, and you'd damn well better stay on your side of the steppe or I'll throw it at your ankles. But if that little caveman needed the rock to live, if he really needed it to survive (by making fire, killing small voles, etc.), would that really be stealing? If you think of stealing only as the taking of something for yourself that does not belong to you, then this would certainly qualify. I think that the right to live, the hunger for survival, should immediately trump any legal accusations against a person who cannot live without something. In a very Utilitarian mode of thinking, then, I think stealing is only wrong if it is done in a manner so selfish that it only benefits the mind and not the whole of the person.

Discount City

Sun, 10 Jul 2005 04:49:02 GMT

Wal-Mart, and probably all corporations to some degree, strikes me as a paramilitary operation. It's not so much that corporate culture is like military culture, or that the goals are the same (making lots of money and maybe killing people versus killing lots of people and making lots of money from taxpayers). Rather, the execution of the meticulously crafted plans to maim or swindle people are pretty much exactly the same. One is just much more overt than the other.

I feel like an enlisted soldier, an infantryman. I carry my rifle onto the front lines, but instead of shooting the enemy myself, I hand them the gun and let them throw little green pieces of paper at me instead. Whether they choose to shoot themselves is entirely up to them; I only follow orders to give them the weapon. Today I felt like I got a promotion. I started learning how to work at the Customer Service desk, the only DMZ in Wal-Mart where the customer actually wields as much power as I do. Now, I'm more like a Private First Class or a Corporal. Once I get to work on Layaway, I'll be up to Staff Sergeant. The CSMs are the Sergeant Majors, but just like in the military, they only wield so much power. Management, of course, fill out the officers corps.

I like treating people well even when they don't do me the same favor.

A couple of nocturnal emissions

Thu, 30 Jun 2005 18:51:55 GMT

As I was lying in bed in the Longhorn room last time I was at Christie's house, I had an idea for the Delta Omicron SING! skit. Usually, SING! skits are meant to poke fun at Southwestern in some way or another, or they are just really crappy sorority dance routines. To make fun of both of those things, I decided that a great skit would have nothing to do with Southwestern and everything to do with Wookies dancing. Darth Vader would be the MC; imagine a darkened stage where Vader emerges from the blackness with his lightsaber talking about the history of music. It would have to have something to do with music; after all, it's for DO. Anyway, I would make this sweet mix of dance music from the 17th century onwards. I was thinking of the following order:

1. Baroque dance (minuet, gavotte, etc.)
2. Romantic dance (ballroom stuff)
3. WWI-era dance (Charlston)
4. Surfer dance (think of all those crappy Elvis movies)
5. Disco
6. Hip-hop dance (breakdance, maybe a special appearance by Coach Z)

What could be better than 8 or 10 Wookies dancing to Stayin' Alive?

Last night I had a dream that I was going to have sex with two people I used to know from school in the Brownwood. I've known them since elementary school, but I've never really been friends with either of them. Anyway, I met up with them, and they wanted to have sex with me, and I reluctantly agreed (they aren't exactly attractive; one has a child now). For some reason, though, I left them immediately and went driving around in the middle of the night until I turned off the highway at this other town. I got out of my car and started looking for ladies to have sex with, basically. The problem was that I couldn't find any in the middle of the night, so I just kept wandering around. At some point I went past the backyard of some other person I used to know from school, and eventually I came to what I thought was an Olive Garden. I went inside, but then I decided that the girls in there probably didn't want to get with some crazy guy wandering around looking for sex. So, I set off down the road again and came to a duplex in a field by itself. Somehow, I knew it was where they housed female exchange students from France, but I was reluctant to knock. A girl came out the door and asked me a question in French. I replied, "Parle vous l'inglese?" which, of course, is two-thirds French, one-third Italian. I went inside with her and we looked at her scrapbooks. She was patently unattractive, and I knew that we weren't going to get it on anyway, so I left. I woke up soon after that.

It's good to be the king...

Wed, 29 Jun 2005 06:09:08 GMT

I picked up a copy of Fast Food Nation at the library today. My brother came with me and ended up finding another Japanese language helper book thingy. It's amazing how few people use the Brownwood Public Library for books these days. Of the 30 or so people there today, I saw three people reading books. About 20 of them were on computers, and the rest were reading magazines.

I have another day off tomorrow before the big rush for Independence Day. I'm going to scan the last roll of film that my brother and I took on the ol' Minolta SLR and send the goodies to Christie. It's nice to have days off from the blunt trauma that can be Wal-Mart.