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watched the ultimate public humiliation on the Jerry Springer Show today. A woman came to the show to reveal to her boyfriend that she's been fucking his best friend, a big dumb hunk of a bartender who is only into her for the "great sex." The boyfriend had no idea why he was there and decided to make it into a public display of chivalrous romance, dropping to his knee before she'd revealed anything so he could propose marriage and offer her a ring. That was when she dropped the bomb on him. The picture above contains the ultimate look of despair. How can a human recover after this sort of thing? But that's what keeps bringing me back to that show.
hairs. For much of the day I was going through raw scans of catalogues and magazines, selecting images of chairs and saving them as little JPEGs, sometimes after first editing out backgrounds and fixing other glitches. It was repetitive and painstaking work, yet it required a certain amount of skill. Time passed rapidly, as always happens when you're lost in nonverbal right brain mode. For "dinner" I walked through the cool drizzle to the Fontaine Avenue Amoco for their legendary fries. On the way, I saw an office chair on a porch and it tipped off an alert in my right brain; it was some reflex response developed by cutting images of chairs from raw scans all day. I guess I wanted to somehow drag a cursor around this real world chair. It reminded me of my weird internal reaction to looking at concrete blocks after playing hours of Tetris. That was years ago. I also passed a bloated black cat that had been hit in the road. Its intestines strung out several feet from him. To avoid that unappetizing sight on the way from the Amoco, I came home via a circuitous route through the residential community at the base of O-hill. I'm not too impressed with the exercise Shira the Dog has been getting from her owners. Matthew Hart's idea of a walk is the length of Observatory Avenue and back. That's less than a fifth of a mile. That dog needs something more like freedom, though I wouldn't say she does much to endear herself to me. Almost everything she does is uniformly bad. Inside, she shits, pisses, pukes, chews things up, intimidates both cat & bird, howls, whines, and otherwise harrasses me. Outside, she escapes, digs holes in the yard, barks, and intimidates the neighborhood cats.
here was a fascinating show on public teevee tonight called "Mysteries of the Universe" on a program called Science Odyssey. It was all about the great physicists of the early part of this century, especially Einstein and Bohr. It made me itch with envy at the opportunity they had to play mental games and to propose, debate and confirm mind bogglingly elegant theories about the essential mechanics of the Universe. It made all the day's tedious computer-assisted image altering seem even more like a terrible spinning of wheels than it already had. I should mention at this point that when I set off to attend Oberlin College back in 1986, I thought a mind that didn't study physics was a mind wasted. My initial major was Physics, truth be known. It was only later that I realized that there are levels of understanding beyond the most basic that deserve more of my attention.
n the evening I came down the stairs to find Theresa, Brick Mansion Sam, Matthew Hart, Angela and Deya hanging out. Theresa was being reserved, intelligent and pleasant, which meant she was sober. When offered alcohol, she claimed not to drink much these days. She sipped a little on a beer and smoked some pot (so did I) but that was it. She also stared at me a lot. But I was happy she was there in this more acceptable state. Meanwhile, Matthew was playing songs from a Billy Joel boxed set he'd bought last night in drunken abandon. He especially wanted to hear "Uptown Girl." Billy Joel was most of what radios played back in the 80s, so (sad to say) I knew all the lyrics and could sing along. I was drinking some whiskey that Sam had brought as a going away present for Matthew, and in time I became fairly drunk. We said our goodbyes to and exchanged our emails with Sam, who will soon reside in New York City, and then he left. I eventually slipped off to bed.
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