Perhaps it's my weak intellect or my improper upbringing, but I find Carolyn's prose completely impenetrable.

N


ot to be snide or a stalker or any of those bad things, but instead, as an intellectual excercise, I have decided to start collecting "Carolynisms" from Carolyn's Diary, the oldest Web journal still online. Perhaps it's my weak intellect or my improper upbringing, but I find Carolyn's prose completely impenetrable. I think, however, that by using my largely reductionist logical facilities, I can crack this nut. I need to do something, I've been going crazy since Elly quit writing in her journal. And now Alan of Heinovision says he's throwing in the towel. At least he's mailing me a Zip disk of his archives. I can't expect such kindness from Elly.

Anyway, I will try to define as many Carolynisms as I can as I go along. If anyone has contributions to this effort, I will provide credit and links. This can be fun if we all co-operate. All the Sesame Street I watched in my youth is finally paying society some dividends.

I have to give Chaz his due; he's the one who put this idea in my mind to begin with.

I notice some of the tear-off URL things are missing from the musings promotional flyers put up on the UVA campus. No doubt this indicates the musings have been getting some hits from these flyers. The students seem to respect the flyers, since they stay up a long time on the various bulletin boards. I think I can get a lot of hits from students if I saturate the entire campus. This is a surefire way to build a local audience, even an offline community. I have to give Chaz his due; he's the one who put this idea in my mind to begin with. My life has confirmed Nietzche: troubles have always made me more dangerous.

I hold my breath when ugly girls walk by.

I'm at UVA's Cocke Hall, working at my favourite, somewhat customized Power Macintosh 7200/120. A beautiful girl just walked by and I inhaled deeply through my nose. I hold my breath when ugly girls walk by. Is this behaviour a matter of instinct? No one ever taught me to do such a thing and I certainly have never heard of anyone else doing this. You see, in the past I've been horrified to discover myself liking the smell of a girl who turned out to be ugly, and I think I'm trying to avoid such stess.

Some day you'll be able to claim you're old-school to a fresh crop of sixteen year old retro-glamsters.

K


atie, the girl whose Dad flew her up for a day visit from South Carolina after she discovered my web pages, says she's finally read my entire musings archive. Today she observed that I'm not as open about my feelings as I used to be. This is troubling, since I've been deliberately and increasingly trying to uncork myself in these musings. Perhaps I try too hard. Or perhaps I don't really have any feelings anyway. Sometimes it seems that all I do is experience, that I never feel. I am an Aquarius, after all, and an ENTP. I was raised in a family where feelings (aside from rage) were rarely acknowledged. And I liked it that way. Feelings and feeling-talk make me uncomfortable. It seems unnecessary. And nauseating.

I


  watched a cool show on MTV about the rise and fall of 80s music and fashion. The best part concerned the ridiculous extremes of glam metal. Lita Ford, the most famous glam metal queen (she once recorded a song with Ozzy Osborne), claims that glam metal is going to experience a revival some day. Take heart, all you gritty aging mullet-kings with Warrant and Winger tee shirts, some day you'll be able to claim you're old-school to a fresh crop of sixteen year old retro-glamsters. Maybe Chaz will be the first Charlottesvillian in the retro-glam movement; sporting a big puffy mullet and a fresh new patent leather jacket with fringes. "Thanks Mommy and Daddy for the new outfit! It's the latest thing." "No problem son, we like the new people you've been hanging out with."

Matthew Hart and I had a sort of male-bonding experience, drinking Red Hooks and watching Beavis and Butthead. He pointed out the humour in the meta-event that was taking place: a couple of dissolute slackers on a couch watching a show about a couple of dissolute slackers on a couch.

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