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not liking House Music
Saturday, April 24 1999
I just found a handy page about phallic symbols in campus architecture. It's got both the University of Michigan clock tower and the Ypsilanti water tower, among many others.
Eric the Defense Engineer came over in the afternoon, again to use my computer to check his email. For a guy with his large income, it's surprising that he needs to bum internet time like some kind of homeless online diary-keeper. But, as I understand it, he is saddled with lots of debt and cannot afford the payments on any additional large purchase, such as a computer.
Jenna the German girl was out in the front yard sunning herself and, during a pause in the email action, Eric went out to chat with her for awhile. I keep changing my mind on the subject of whether or not these two are compatible. Certainly things seemed to be going good today: evidently they managed to work through a serious style violation he'd committed when last she saw him. He'd been wearing white socks with brown shoes and blue pants. According to Jenna, you see, socks must always match either the shoes or the pants; if they don't, she's not interested in the guy wearing them. It's a style mine-field out there, guys.
The music that Eric prefers is "House Music," a variety of Techno designed specifically for conventional dance parties (as opposed to raves). I'd been under the delusion that I might like the stuff, but when he played some today I decided I didn't. Not at all. I do like some Techno, however.
Kim and I took Sophie for a walk down to Newport to get a smoothie at the little hole in the wall hippie place. While we were there, this one guy (whom we once randomly had over at our place) approached us trying to sell us $7 tickets to a party allegedly to benefit the war victims of Yugoslavia. He was pushy about it too, not immediately accepting our obviously-quick-fab excuses. Friends don't hit you up for $14 on the street like that.
I keep looking for the Trench Coat Mafia web page, but AOL freaked out and took it down the moment they became aware of it, and I've found no mirrors. I'm tempted to make my own Trench Coat Mafia web page, guessing my way through their prejudices and lust for blood, perhaps starting with a promotional postcard such as the following:
I've already thought of a line I could use in describing the final phase in the deployment of a pipe bomb: Put it somewhere where there are jocks, jews or jiggaboos, then Heil Hitler and light the fuse!
I'd like to think that if I ever go postal, my website won't be immediately unplugged out of some kind of boneheaded "respect for the victims." Certainly if I was such a victim, pulling the plug on the website of the murderer would figure low in my list of desires.
Today the sunburn on my chest began pealing in earnest. I've been ripping intact sheets of skin from myself all day; it's the closest I'll ever get to going through what snakes must go through on a regular basis. But the skin isn't content to come off in a single layer; I take off one layer and there's another pealing layer underneath, and beneath that the skin has a weird meaty, bumpy feel, and that stuff doesn't feel right when exposed to the air. I look a little like a Hiroshima survivor and it's creeping me out. I suppose it's part of my San Diego initiation. But if God wanted me here, He would have given me darker skin and less potential for advancement in a corporate world controlled by white guys.
I cut my hair today. I wanted to document it, but my camera is such a pain to use, I decided to use my scanner instead. It makes me look like a dead guy, but I don't give a fuck.
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