...Liquid Nails, a rubbery adhesive that is great for just about any project except the repair of combat boots.

T


he email concerning the Dart doesn't look good. Turtle and the Mayor of Bethesda Avenue both tell me that a bent axle is a serious problem. Still, the car is driving okay. I might try replacing the bearings; perhaps the axle is less bent than I think and the bearings are the seriously damaged part. I don't want to give up all hope; I like my Dart. It's the best $200 I ever spent.

Work on the Frat Boy Machine continued at the Downtown Artspace. For lack of materials, I improvised, scrounged around for boards in the alleys near the Downtown Mall, and made liberal use of Liquid Nails, a rubbery adhesive that is great for just about any project except the repair of combat boots.

I also used lots of silver spray paint. A machine so complex and technologically cutting-edge that it can convert people from one personality type to a more common, useful type can't look like it was simply made out of closet doors. But in the process of inhaling all the spray paint fumes, I became light headed and kind of stupid.

Finding ones self in this nation requires lots of gasoline and a good collection of tapes.

Still, the machine made much progress today. By the end of the day's labours, it had coloured lights controlled by switches. It had big complex circuit boards wired to and fro. It had valves. It had gauges. And it even had a built-in high-powered audio system. If only I could find an easy way to make the sucker smoke.

Jacques deBeaufort, the guy co-ordinating Friday's extravaganza, thought it was a marvelous piece of work, as did Liz West. I'm not entirely clear what projects they're working on. I do know that Jenfariello is building something she calls a "fantasy foto booth."

B


ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I was plinking away at the labourious and crash-intensive process of checking my email when Angela, Theresa's younger sister, arrived seemingly randomly. She and I drank a couple beers on the front porch. The air smelled of Fall and the cold wind blasted around us chaotically.

Then, again seemingly randomly, Red-headed Diana showed up in a freshly-purchased $3500 used Vanagon. She's in town until Friday, when she will embark on one of those typically Generation X tours of the country. Finding ones self in this nation requires lots of gasoline and a good collection of tapes.

But tonight Diana intended to go do dinner with Matthew Hart at Southern Culture, another restaurant where Leah works as a waitress. We waited around until he showed up, along with Sam (the guy from the Brick Mansion). For want of increased excitement, I decided to join them for dinner. This dinner thing was to be a bigger deal than I'd originally thought. It was to involve Matthew and Diana, alright. But it was also to involve a chunk of the Downtown Artspace scene: Liz West and Jacques deBeaufort. I'd heard them discussing doing dinner earlier. I still have no idea why these two distinct social groups converged tonight.

People asked me if I'd actually ever gotten it, and I lied and told them no as I shoveled down the jambalia that came as a side.

And it wasn't just two social groups. When we all were assembled in Southern Culture, we numbered eleven (twelve, if you count Leah, acting as waitress). That blond girl who lives with Ian, Freedom, was there. She wore some especially angular horn-rimmed glasses. Another blond girl, a handsome chick with two eyebrow barbells, was there as well. She appeared to be some kind of date de Jacques.

I inhaled my catfish steak sandwich in the blink of an eye, as usual. People asked me if I'd actually ever gotten it, and I lied and told them no as I shoveled down the jambalia that came as a side. The food was fairly good, but bland for what was supposed to be New Orleans cuisine. The others were chatty and friendly and (for the most part) just a bit drunk. But I was tired. This dinner intruded terribly into hours I normally reserve for a pre-work nap.

I did get an hour long pre-work nap, but that was not nearly sufficient. What with the inhaled paint fumes, the alcohol, and the lack of sleep, I felt like shit throughout tonight's shift.

Going through the Atlas logs, I see I'm getting lots of hits by people using search engines to find pictures of a dead princess Diana. I have pictures of a Diana alright, but she's quite alive and she has red hair. Interestingly though, Redheaded Diana is an orphan. Both her parents died in an auto accident when she was quite small. She says that the Vanagon she bought recently is part of a new resolve to squander her inheritance.

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