If a late burst of Summer is "Indian Summer" then perhaps an early burst of Fall is "Columbian Fall." T he cool weather had gone on for at least a week. Even in the middle of the day, I'm comfortable sleeping under a thick blanket. If a late burst of Summer is "Indian Summer" then perhaps an early burst of Fall is "Columbian Fall." H ere I am, drunk on Kentucky bourbon, working on my musings using the very primitive equipment available to me at Kappa Mutha Fucka. It's a 25 Mhz 486 on a 14.4 kilobaud modem. Vintage might be the operative word. Since I'm drunk, I have a few choice words for one of my detractors out there wasting his time on my unredeeming site: Chaz-you little tough guy (the one with the rich parents who buy you the latest skinhead/fascist fashions). Wingnut calls you "brother" because you've joined the "skinhead movement," which, he tells me, is based on "working men's pride." We all know, though, that your popularity as a teenager isn't based on who you are, but instead on how much loot your parents have. Isn't it a horrible situation, then, that humble little impoverished me can put whatever the hell I want on the internet and there's not a damn thing you or your mommy and daddy can do about it short of killing me, which would only draw more attention to this place where I embarass your rich little wanna-be skinhead ass? What must your friends be saying behind your privileged back? Ha ha! I encourage you to stare into your own sphincter and behold your essential nature! look what I just found in the Skinhead Bill of Rights Tough Guys shall make no law respecting an establishment of sexual preference, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the internet; or the right of the goths peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Tough Guys for redress of grievances. A gain today I had vivid dreams, and they weren't even depressing. Unfortunately, I can't remember them at all. I need to start carrying a pad of paper around with me along with the other things I usually carry. I had a long pre-work nap, but something about drinking all that bourbon beforehand took its toll on me. Tonight here at Comet, I feel like I have sagging asphalt rooves ontop of my eyeballs. It's amazing how healthy I am considering all the alcohol I drink and all the marginal food I eat. While it's possible that a diet of bourbon, french fries, fried chicken, ramen and Cambell's Vegetarian Vegetable Soup is the ticket to a long and healthy life, somehow I have my doubts. But I can't even remember the last time I became sick from an actual disease. Whoever said that having a baby required planning and saving was obviously mistaken. Peggy and Zach are in the northeast again to pick up another check from Peggy's mom. Together they're experiencing this pregnancy full time, with no room for normal employment. Somehow they've made a living out of it, and they seem to be enjoying themselves immensely. Whoever said that having a baby required planning and saving was obviously mistaken. Jessika sends word that she recently accompanied Peggy and Zach on a drive to Coney Island to find Morgan Anarchy, Tony Dirtbag and the new dog (jokingly referred to as Butt Noodles II). The gutter punks could not be found, but the Malvernians did build an enormous sand castle as well as a sand figure of Peggy, complete with sea grass for head hair and seaweed for pubic hair. Jessika says she experienced whiplash whilst riding on the big old rickety Coney Island roller coaster, the Cyclone. She added that her chiropractor, the guy who is putting her back together in the aftermath of the accident on Carter's Mountain, will not be pleased.

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