"I am in Paris."

Onion Bhuji

Below is the footage from the trip to India that I took with Becky & Bailey this time last year; compliments to R. Fonticoba.

Selfish bitch

Ben thinks Atlanta is terrifying. Brigid sleeps twelve hours a night. And I, am somewhere in between.

This weekend flew by. Of course, it's Tuesday. But yesterday was Memorial Day, so I guess I've more of an excuse than usual. Not much happened. A predictable amount of drinking (Tom Collins, by the pool) and driving around when I probably shouldn't have. Yesterday started out sunny so we prepared ourselves to hit the beach, where we were alerted that Miss Fraser Miller would be all day. On the way there it started raining so hard that we couldn't see the road, so we made a quick u-turn into "Waterman's Seafood," the kind of place where they just cover your table in brown paper and set you up with some mallets and some bibs and a big dish of butter sauce and an even bigger plastic bucket for the shells and just sort of dump out a mountain of crabs and corn still in the husks in front of you and you end up having to (like the guy seated to the right of us) change your shirt at the end of the whole ordeal because you're so fucking oily; it was great. Brigid almost threw up by the end of it. After that we continued on our way to "Ocean City" to find Fraser, and find her we did, "on the corner of 2nd & Philadelphia," in the "Sea Breeze Motel," shacked up with a bunch of vets, all sporting an array of impressively awful tattoos (this one guy just had RAGE sprawled across the entirety of his stomach), drinking warm Natty Ice and watching Daisy of Love. Fraser loves the army. They all, loved the army. We didn't get to go swimming. I drank half a beer and we drove home.

Happy Summer, all.

Don't bogart that joint

Lately. Lately I feel as if I've no direction and no hope of finding one. Like I'm just really not meant to do anything great, or anything at all. I think of things I could pursue, but I know it's not right, it feels so forced, I don't know. The thought of ever actually accomplishing something seems so foreign, of being valuable even more so. Like I'm just letting time pass, waiting for something that's probably never going to come, as I'm sure as hell doing nothing to bring it about. So I'm stuck. And I'm living with my parents all summer. And it really, kind of blows. That feeling of minor invincibility and, let's face it, coolness, is quietly fading into one of subtle, passive imprisonment. Sneaking around in the night, getting high. Having to explain myself all the time.

They clean.. everything. All the time. I don't understand. They never laugh, they just worry, and are concerned about things, and run errands, and get tired from running the errands. They make jokes that aren't funny, and laugh hard at things I know they can't possibly actually find funny, and are interested in the cusp of things, minor elements of the actually interesting whole, and work hard to articulate this interest in ways that don't really make sense. They just.. don't seem like real people to me, like the shells of people. The shells of souls past, the WASPS, all washed up on the Eastern Shore to gather for croquet parties and brunches and Memorial Day bbqs. I'm being very critical. But sometimes, I wonder if things would be different, for me, if I had grown up with the type of superhero parents I always imagined. Academics. Eccentrics. People with vision. People who read Harper's. People who are friends with psychoanalysts, people who write essays. People who leave things messy sometimes, people who can't overcome their laziness sometimes. People who embrace their flaws and the flaws of others. But I'm nauseating myself. Sure, this is the kind of parent I'd like to be. But why do any of these things matter? Certainly they're just as superficial as whatever the fuck my parents are doing. But. The type of person I am. I don't hate my parents. I do blame them, to an extent, for what they are, just as I blame myself for what I am. I just.. just wish they had something. Something redemptive. Something like an extensive record collection, or an obsessive enthusiasm for anything actually worthwhile and beautiful.

But instead, we're living in the South. You know what I saw yesterday when I was watching public access tv? There was this guy being interviewed, turns out he was a pastor. He wrote a book, about "the class of 1850," which apparently included some hard hitters, politically. But the real wacky thing was, he was dressed as a Confederate soldier. And he meant it. And it was so strange, the way he continued to explain the book, answer all the questions asked of him with no hint at the fact that he was even aware of what he looked like to everyone else. So finally, the interviewer asked him, "What's up with your outfit, dude?" and this man tells us that he's had it custom-made. And not only does he have this one, he's owner to a slew of reenactment-themed outfits, which he dons depending on which aspect of the Civil War he's scheduled to be discussing. They're very hot, he says, but he still wears them in, like, July, and meanwhile the interviewer is shaking, shaking as he holds up this guy's book, and maybe he's just old but honestly this guy is kind of frightening. "He just likes going back in time." That's all it is, no harbored malice toward blacks, or the north, or the United States government, or anything like that. Just an unbridled desire to transcend the limits of time. So yeah, this is where I live now. Public access television on a hot Saturday afternoon.

Brigid's driving down to visit me today. We're going to go to the beach and drink Tom Collins and make Ortega tacos and.. some other stuff. I don't know. Maybe we'll take out the Whaler and zip around the harbor in our Wayfarers. Maybe we'll make a cake. I hope she stays forever.

"Oh.. oh I GOT a helmet."

that he wished to be human again

"Though the gas was disabled, the Friendreth’s electricity flowed, thankfully, just as its plumbing worked. Biller provided Perkus with a hot plate on which he could boil water for coffee, and he’d have a cup in his hand by the time Ava returned from her walk. He imagined the volunteer could smell it when she opened the door. Coffee was the only constant between Perkus’s old daily routine and his new one, a kind of lens through which he contemplated his transformations. For there was no mistaking that the command had come, as in Rilke’s line: You must change your life. The physical absolutes of coexistence with the three-legged pit bull stood as the outward emblem of a new doctrine: Recover bodily prerogatives, journey into the real. The night of the blizzard and the loss of his apartment and the books and papers inside it had catapulted him into this phase. He held off interpretation for now. Until the stupendous cluster headache vanished, until he learned what Ava needed from him and how to give it, until he became self-sufficient within the Friendreth and stopped requiring Biller’s care packages of sandwiches and pints of Tropicana, interpretation could wait." -Jonathan Lethem, "Ava's Apartment"

This story is, in my opinion, the finest piece of fiction I've seen in the New Yorker in quite some time.

It's so cold in Alaska..

Just found this gem; it was freezing--freezing--that day.

flickr.com/earthpeople

Not so into talking lately

celebratin' everyday, no more public housin'

Summmmmmmmerrrrrrrr.

The best weekends are the ones that end on Wednesday and start on Friday. Spent this past one in Jersey. Some typical happenings: milkshakes and hangman and gossip with Gareth, pizza with the Greco family, Johnny Walker Blue Label in Joey's ballroom, in Joey's Rolls, harmonized bird calls in the middle of the night, "Are we in the mood for, like, serious Biggie, or fun Biggie?", savory breakfast crepes, I spilled coffee on myself one morning at some bagel place in Millburn and had to spend the rest of the day with a big coffee stain on my stomach, a lot of driving around with JR listening to his expansive collection of sometimes questionable rap, a lot of being happy just to be around my best friend again, falling asleep in my raincoat on JG's side of the bed, the sounds of professionally-narrated flash fiction swimming through my tired ears, silly mornings of lolling around in bed and testing out the whips and the strange combination of egg and cream cheese on one glorious bagel, boredom infestation at Chez Greco, ballin' sandwiches with cole slaw on the side, sad scary movies starring Philip Seymour Hoffs, sad retarded movies starring yellow Labs named Marley, hunting down ice cream, hunting down dime bags, broing down with an Entourage marathon, one-lined mall adventures ("That's not an oxford," "I'm not wearing a bra, Carol"), Jared bought a "Golf Jacket," Mario Kart, the perfect sushi dinner, more Mario Kart, The Wackness (stoned), blueberry pancakes and French toast and early morning joints with HBM3, early afternoon joints and arboretum-dwelling with HBM3 & RF, one hilarious Whole Foods excursion, some big fucking salads, trampoline bouncing, Beverly Hills 90210, an ambitious attempt to make it to see the new Jarmusch movie (didn't happen), skipping right to our plan B, wine, and s'mores, at Becky's, a trip to the dugout in the Morristown Beard baseball field that I don't remember too well, along with a hazy trip back to Becky's accompanied by the soothing melodies of--ahem--"screw music." And some other stuff, that I can't really remember right now.

I have to get a job.

drive a Rolls Royce 'cause it's good for my voice

It's 7:13 am. I've been up since 6 downloading T. Rex songs and eating cold leftover pizza and watching Wings and trying to decide which Masta Ace track to throw on JG's mix and every once and awhile just remembering and finding it pretty incredible that wow, I really haven't showered in that long. This jet lag is kicking my ass.

electric boots, a mohair suit..

So, I'm home for the summer. Home, in Maryland. MAN, this place BLOWS. There's nothing to do but get up really early and watch Saved By The Bell clips on the internet while eating pop tarts in bed all morning. Fuck it, all day.

Let's see, my personal life. I'm driving up to NJ this weekend to hang out with Lisa, and hopefully swim in her baller pool and drive around in her huge vehicle listening to "Bennie & the Jets" on repeat until my face just disintegrates into a mound of periwinkle sparkles, which I presume Lisa will subsequently snort off her center consul before hightailing it to the nearest Sonic. No really, though. We should find a Sonic; I hear they've revived the roller skates. That, or they just never left, although I'm pretty sure they did because I went to a Sonic, like, over ten years ago with my grandparents when I visited them at their retirement community in South Carolina, and I don't recall any roller skates. Then again, I may have just been blinded by the fact that I was getting the fuck out of there, as this trip to Sonic happened to take place en route to the Savannah airport, after a week of various attempts at submission to the over-sixty lifestyle, all which ultimately failed to distract me from the unavoidable : "Does God exist?" Shudder. Good times, man.

So yeah, after riding low in Lisa's truck for awhile, we'll probably hoof it over to Joey's, where we'll spend an entire day just watching classic 1970s pornography and painting landscapes on other's faces with our toes in his movie theatre. What, do I think we live in LA or something? Speaking of soon-to-be LA trash, it's Brigid's birthday. Everyone, once my parents finish the "architectural detail" (pool), you're all invited south of the Mason/Dixon for cake and group sex and magic shows and big bowls of Doritos and all the usual elements of debauchery. Brigid, this is for you:

As for today, I'll probably (once finished with aforementioned SBTB/pop tarts debacle), get around to stuffing my face with fish sticks and croutons, pretending I'm going to unpack, and sticking myself in front of the tv to wait for Bravo to air part two of the Real Housewives of New York: Reunion. For the rest of you, here is a picture from my last day in Edinburgh..

..a picture of me now..

..and a little something to pass the time before it's late enough in the day to start drinking without feeling guilty (3 pm):

my friend

And this doesn't mean that you didn't try a thousand different ways to make things alright again.

I'VE ABANDONED MY CHILD

Two days left in Edinburgh. Did I kick the asses of my finals? Oh yes, I believe I did. And now, we drink.

Put these on a cd together:

"Hysteric" (Acoustic Version) -Yeah Yeah Yeahs

"Baby Driver" -Simon & Garfunkel

"This Land pt. 1" -Liam the Younger

"My Friend" -Bill Callahan

"Waves of Rye" -Department of Eagles

"Me and Julio Down By the School Yard" -Paul Simon

"Everyday Feels Like Sunday" -Of Montreal

"Death to Feelers" -Matthew Dear

"Love You Madly" -Cake

"Jorge Regula" -The Moldy Peaches

"Tangerine" -The Flaming Lips

You're next up, kid

So I'm pretty impressed by the fact that all of my friends are actually so invested in studying right now. What an inspiring group of nerds. Except for you, Ben Kagan. Ben, are you reading this? Everyone, Ben is not studying. Ben has decided to join the US Air Force. Because he's going to be a writer. He's currently reading Naked Lunch.

I've spent most of my time back in Edinburger either cramming or sleeping or watching The Royal Tenenbaums. It's been gross and rainy every day.

Things I miss:

-getting high on the roof of the chicken coop

-sneaking into Streeter Pool

-long drives home from Jared's house in the middle of thick, humid, summer nights

Things I'm enjoying:

-friends who bring Tide-to-go pens to breakfast

Things I asked Jesus for last night:

-salt water taffy

-oil heir

-set of encyclopedias

You don't need to be so honest

Just because he loves you too, he would never take a bullet for you

Back with all the Edinburglars. It's green everywhere, and smells like roses. There are really few things more satisfying than fleeing a city during the bleak, barren months of the unwinding winter, and coming back to spring in full bloom. Flight was fairly uneventful. Watched He's Just Not That Into You; t'was informative. My pen exploded all over my hand and I dost admit I thought I might've gone blind at the time. It was a painless adventure, the one here. Oh, I read the interview with Sam Mendes about Revolutionary Road in the latest film issue of The Believer. I really enjoyed it. Much more than expected. I haven't read any Yates, and I should, from the sound of it.

English final tomorrow, eh?

With a parasite attached to me