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3:51 a.m. : 2002-09-21 : Child Support

Here�s my story right now: This computer is fucking slow. And I�ve used its slowness to fuel my own personal lethargy, as an excuse to avoid real things. To avoid writing music, experiencing life, feeling extremes of humanness. So I�ve grossly neglected my diaryland site, although my experience with diaryland has made me a better writer. Wonky, that. Since I�ve been working on exercises from The Artist�s Way, I�ve stopped numbing myself out. Unfortunately the Internet has been novocaine for me for a damn long time. A laptop in my bedroom has indeed improved my writing and brought many an hilarious and intelligent soul to me, but has also allowed me to not Do The Work.

So I haven�t written here for about a week and a half. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, of course, but long enough in that I feel like I�ve neglected to call a good friend back, and the more time I�ve spent, the harder it is to call them back. But here I am.

Tonight Brent and I went to Charlie�s (as usual). It was fun. Jup, the manager, gave me his cell number so that we could set up a meeting to discuss my new business, karaoke, and having a running night there for fun (don�t worry�the dorkiness of karaoke is not lost on me, this is one reason why I think I�ll make a phat MC� Yo, I love the irony of it, bathtub, I expect to see you there. If I�m making a big enough fool of myself in the Boston area, I�d love to meet a few faces who�ve furrowed their brows before this screen once or twice).

But then as we were leaving Charlie�s tonight, there was a crowd in front and our friend Jason was on his way out with a pitcher of ice and a rag and Brent and I were like, �Jason, don�t take a pitcher of ice with you!� We had seen he was bahdoom bahdoom drunk and thought he ought to just get a cab home. But as we walked out, there was a huge crowd, police and all. Some assholes had beaten up a guy we�ve seen before. And as he sat on the curb surrounded by a bunch of humans, blotting a bloody face and teeth with an already red rag, a young girl said, �Please, just take him to the hospital; They�re not coming back!� Brent and I stood there for a few minutes, trying to see if we could help, and then decided to head to my car and go home.

The thing is, Charlie�s, though I love it, has always been a strange Bermuda Triangle of EVEEEL. I had my wallet stolen there once. Full of about five hundred bucks my dad had given me earlier in the day when I was in Jerz. He never gives me that much at once. Another time, on an off night, maybe a Tuesday, I was in the one-er ladies� bathroom and noticed a compact mirror with its dead eye watching me piss under the door. I didn�t have a cell phone at the time and so couldn�t call the bar or anyone else. It doesn�t seem like a big thing now, but at the time, I was scared as shit. Would someone all of a sudden kick the door in and do his business on me? All I could to was say in alarm, �EXCUSE ME???!!!!� where upon he (I�m assuming) pulled back his little mirror. I would have loved to have jammed my boot on his little mirror and shriveled hand. But I didn�t, out of fear. Wil�s sister No�lle informed me not long ago of voyeur.com where men videotape women this way, in bar bathrooms and whatnot, and post them online. Great. If you see what you might think my ass might look like, please let me know.

During this time I�ve been tending to other pastures, just so you know, I�ve been practicing my prowess at the Alistair Crowley Tarot deck, reading up on Reiki, and figuring out where the hell in NYC I want to go to dinner to with the fam for my birthday. I promise I will have more to report in the near future. If nothing else I�ll tell you how I�ve eaten veal prepared in celebration of my twenty-seventh year.

Word of the Day for Saturday September 21, 2002

gimcrack JIM-krak, noun: A showy but useless or worthless object; a gewgaw.

adjective: Tastelessly showy; cheap; gaudy.

Yet the set is more than a collection of pretty gimcracks. --Frank Rich, [1]Hot Seat

In those cities most self-conscious about their claim to be part of English history, like Oxford or Bath, the shops where you could have bought a dozen nails, home-made cakes or had a suit run up, have shut down and been replaced with places selling teddy bears, T-shirts and gimcrack souvenirs. --Jeremy Paxman, [2]The English: A Portrait of a People

And as for coincidences in books -- there's something cheap and sentimental about the device; it can't help always seeming aesthetically gimcrack. --Peter Brooks, "Obsessed with the Hermit of Croisset," [3]New York Times, March 10, 1985

The origin of gimcrack is uncertain. It is perhaps an alteration of Middle English gibecrake, "a slight or flimsy ornament."

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