promotional artifacts
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It totally swamped all other sources of hits.
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ast night on the CNN messageboard, I posted my angry views concerning the disgusting new human septuplets and left a link to yesterday's musings. Later, as I was going through the logs, I was astounded by the traffic this was sending into my site. It totally swamped all other sources of hits, including getting a favourable mention this morning in Netguide.
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I've posted lots of these flyers, though few survive long on the Corner, where irate skinheads and their needy friends no doubt rip them down the instant they're seen.
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After I got off work I was taking some pictures characteristic of Charlottesville along the tracks behind the old Rising Sun Bakery on the Corner. Then I saw it. One of my old musings promotional flyers was still attached to a telephone pole in the area, clearly visible on an important secret ninja path taken by many members of the Wertland Street community into the center of the Corner district. I'll remind those who don't remember that this flyer features a picture of a stupid rich kid skinhead getting the top knocked off of his closely-cropped ignorance-jar. I've posted lots of these flyers, though few survive long on the Corner, where irate skinheads and their needy friends no doubt rip them down the instant they're seen. What surprises me is that evidently no skinheads or skinhead supporters had been in this presumably high traffic area in weeks. Their ranks are even thinner than I thought, and their routines more predictable than even their automaton-like behaviour would suggest.
Of course, I expect the flyers I post on the grounds of UVA to last a long time, and they do. You wouldn't catch a skinhead in such an intellectual environment even if a revived Adolf Hitler were there giving a guest lecture.
sex & love, the unmet twain
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"Do you want to make love?" she asked after hours of wonderfully unwholesome intimacy.
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he first time I ever had an opportunity1 to have sex was ten years ago, almost to this day. I was nineteen, a student in Oberlin College. My girlfriend was named Joy, and she was a Libran cello player from King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. I was so in love with her in those days. "Do you want to make love?" she nervously asked after hours of wonderfully unwholesome intimacy. "Sure," I said, my voice cracking with disgusting self-satisfaction. She lit some candles and popped in her diaphram. My penis dwindled away to nothing. It didn't come back for three days.
I was miserable; I could barely look Joy in the eye. I spread rumours of having an iron deficiency, which was plausible because I was living in a vegetarian co-operative at the time. We tried again a week or so later, but again I was a failure. We were lovers for more than a whole year after that, sleeping every night in the same bed for an entire semester, and we never once had real Biblical sex. I'd given up. The other stuff we did worked just fine for me anyway. That's very typical of my reaction to adversity, and says much about my views concerning intercourse.
I lost my virginity when I was 21 to Beth from California, an increasingly zealous Zionist Gemini who kept kosher as long as it contributed to coitus. I didn't love her at all. I've never had sex with anyone with whom I've ever been in love, despite the things I might have said in moments beyond my control.
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This came with a harsh sense of justice that caused our friendship to go through week-long ice ages.
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In the middle of my relationship with Joy, I ran across Gretchen. She was a seventeen year old, a virgin, either a Capricorn or an Aquarius, and an Oberlin Freshman from my birthplace, Silverspring Maryland. It was the Fall of 1988, and Joy was taking a semester off to earn money, so I was living in my dorm, Harkness, alone. There was something about Gretchen that was very appealing. She was sort of a stylish Jewish American Princess type, but she also had an earthiness about her. She was very intelligent, though this came with a harsh sense of justice that caused our friendship to go through week-long ice ages. I definitely fell in love with her, though it was an unusually gradual process. I could have had sex with her too, but there was something in my morality at the time that kept me faithful to Joy. In February, 1989, under the curse of Pisces, I lost both of them for different reasons. In some sense, I've never fully recovered.
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Nicholas the Kitten was being a complete terror, but no more than he had been earlier, so I doubt he was catching a catnip contact high.
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Another aspect of having a useable computer here at Kappa Mutha Fucka is that I get to work on the musings while drunk. Really drunk.
another human named Nick
reg, one of my readers from Minnesota, shipped me a fairly powerful little laptop, and it arrived today. It's to be used on my big roadtrip (whenever that comes). As I was ripping into packages, watching the Simpsons, and hanging out with Deya, there came a knock at the door. It was a guy named Nick, the very same Nick who keeps the online journal known as Blue Skied. We've lived in the same town and known of each other for months, but this was our first ever meeting. He's shy with an undercurrent of sad abandon, which is the same feeling you get from his journal. When we spoke, we lapsed into discussion of common points of interest, from which Deya was unfortunately but unavoidably excluded. She was busy mixing her own variant on American Spirit Pow Wow blend tobacco, to which she added catnip. She rolled me one and it was a pretty good smoke, if a little harsher than the commercial stuff. Nicholas the Kitten was being a complete terror, but no more than he had been earlier, so I doubt his behaviour was due to a catnip contact high.
See what Nick had to say about his visit to Kappa Mutha Fucka.
I had a series of dreams about fire during my prework nap. In each dream, things burst into flames unexpectedly and I had to quickly run them outside before the fire spread to other things.
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The moment she was through with me, her boyfriend Shandi, a good friend of mine, came knocking at the door. Typical for Susan, she helped herself to a second course.
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1This isn't entirely true, since of course I'd also been routinely propositioned by gay men in bus stations. There were also a few girls in my high school who shyly tested my waters, and I usually reacted by rebuffing them in an awkward, embarrassed fashion, only to have the matter haunt and flatter me for weeks afterwards. You have to understand, I had no examples to follow. My friends were even bigger dorks than me and my older brother was a lunatic social outcast. My asexual inertia carried me right through my Freshman year at Oberlin, until one uncomfortably sober night in September 1987 Susan started kissing me. I could have had sex with her (she was a rather loose woman), but of course I hesitated.
More than two years passed before Susan and I finally consummated our very peculiar friendship. It was my 22nd birthday, which was being celebrated by a big party at a wretched off-campus house called Dog House. I was extremely drunk and soon found myself making an outrageous display of fondling her. We went back to her room, Harkness 204, for some particularly unmemorable intercourse. The moment she was through with me, her boyfriend Shandi, a good friend of mine, came knocking at the door. Typical for Susan, she helped herself to a second course, this one uncircumcized. For his part, Shandi didn't seem to care about what had just transpired; he'd always felt uncomfortable being Susan's boyfriend, feeling as though she really "belonged" to me, a feeling I didn't exactly share. This was all very different from what happened between Rory, Leah and Matthew Hart. The emotional stakes were nowhere near as high.
