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4:22 pm | 10 August 2004 | Young, dumb, and full of rum

Dissolute, grungy

I'm in a good though headachey mood today, having wrassled with some truly piratical--and by that i mean bootleg--rum last night until all hours. I decided to hang out in my atelier ("workspace") at home, which is like a foyer junior, really, this little antechamber betwixt living/bedroom (aka The Parlour*) and bathroom. The floorspace in this area is three by four feet and the nearest electrical outlet, of the four total my apartment contains, is in the bathroom, so I had the cords of my stereo, computer, and lamp stretched like guy wires across the bathroom, which NOT A GOOD IDEA if you're gonna tie one** on and then stumble around in a slip and terrycloth pumps like some kind of dissolute, grungy Liz Taylor, eating artichoke hearts out of the can and singing Nick Cave. I think I made a drawing too, but I'll have to check on that when I get home and get back to you.

This tomfoolery went on until midnight or so; then I woke up at four in the morning, listened to the Cure's Wish, and went back to sleep. And this, in a nutshell (but Oh, what a nut!), is why roommates are not a good idea for my random, all-hours-keepin' self.

Dissolute, grungy

If you are on, go ahead and join ...And you will know us by the trail of bread, my carb-appreciation, anti-Atkins club. I don't want you to make the same mistake as Gate did and assume it's a club for fatties; to do so would mean engaging with Atkins on the ground he has chosen, which is "Bread makes you fat." That is not only totally wrong, but is against everything I stand for. I am an extremely hot 138 pounds and it's because I am packed full of cupcakes and croutons at all times.


If anyone from here wants to buy my Lomo Kompakt Automat, a temperamental, "artsy" Russian camera that I lack the patience/skills to manipulate but that can do some really hot shit, let me know and I'll cut you a deal, for serious. I'm just wasting film on the bitch and I'd rather get a guitar to suck upon than another camera at which to suck. It also doesn't help that I have the original manual, which is in Russian. I don't understand Russian unless you count "drinking" and "weeping," which are universal languages, Comrade.

Uzeniny parek

Left:THIS is my kind of restaurant. I defy you to think of a single food item that cannot be made better with the addition of nuts. If you are allergic, I'm sorry that your life has less quality in it for never having experienced nuts. Go have some shellfish. Right: Did I show you this already? I am too lazy to go look. Anyhow, it is thanks to the genius of Anne, who says of it: "it's a czech (town of kostelec) smoked (uzeniny) sausage (parek) tin, still with the same logo they had in 1917. i made the boys eat the sausage, and carried an extra tin in the hopes that perhaps i would see you, or would at least be able to send it to you with US postage, because i know of few people that would get the joy that a man fellating a smoked sausage can bring, but there's no way i'm paying to ship it from here. but how can i not share these important cultural icons, you know?" Truer words were hardly ever spoke. I spent many a moment pondering its weird awesomeness yesterday, before deciding it would replace my IT'S PARTY TIME IN LB canister as the receptacle of choice for my grease pencils.

Finns not fins

My boss, who today gave me the pair of black rubber swimfins that I am currently sporting sub-desk (with the preface "People just come from Europe and buy fins and leave them!" which I originally heard as "Finns" not "fins," you know, People of Finland, and i had a scary-German-bosslady moment, but anyhow), also remarked "At three o'clock German people have cake and coffee everyday" immediately after she suggested that we finish off the tiramisu that she whipped out yesterday and, well, if that's what the Deutschland's really about, then sign me the FUCK UP. I love some cake! clm.

*I think studio-apartment living necessitates a kind of grandiosity, since you don't have all the rooms in the world to play around with. My apartment is thus composed of Water Closet, Atelier, Parlour, and Galley. I also work for a stock-photography syndicate that deals with interiors and architecture, and I keep cracking jokes about slipping images of the Long Beach Lair--my estate's name--into the pile to see if anyone notices it amid the gaud-o-rama that celebrity homes tend toward. "Heeeyy, this ain't Elton John's house!"

**I love referring to booze as "one," like "pass me a cold one." Oh my god, that reminds me of this. Go watch it. You'll need sound.

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