rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

so I bought the Fleetwood Mac album. listening to it right now. I have such great taste, it’s really unbelievable. just imagine me singing along to “never forget” right now, cause that’s what I’m doing.

I also bought the first Danzig album. the one with “mother” on it. but seriously, “twist of cain” is the best track on there.
I wish I was as evil as Danzig. it would definitely give me purpose every day… purpose to ROCK every day.

and.
I also bought a burrito. this is all yesterday. they put a Chipotle in across the street from the record store..
it sits right where the McDonalds used to be on Kirkwood Ave. it closed down, as no one ever gave it any business.
there are two reasons for that, I think. the first (and more easily proved, I’d imagine) is that there are a wealth of delis and pizza places and ethnic restaurants right in that vicinity. McDonalds had no chance of ever hanging.
the second reason, I believe, is because in an overwhelmingly liberal town, in the most “anti-establishment” part of said town, people made a conscious choice not to go to eat at the universal symbol of global capitalism. I’ll be honest, that’s a reason I skip out on fast food sometimes, when I like to feel like I’m saving the world (before I buy my gas from an Exxon station and go home and get my Coca-Cola fix). but it’s mostly because places like McDonalds serve you food that A) doesn’t taste good and B) is really bad for you.
okay, with all that said: I’m totally willing to forget that Chipotle is owned by McDonalds, because those burritos are pretty good. and yesterday the guy behind the counter actually gave me free guac. kick ass.
what’s sad, though, is how well Chipotle does. all these people who wouldn’t support some transational corporation before are line up for it now. hey, I know who’s getting the money I hand over the counter there. I’ll be honest: I’m biting the bullet, throwing principle out the window for the sake of a better product. and the fact that I’m a slave to burritos worldwide..
most people, at least in Bloomington, I’d suspect, probably don’t have any idea that Chipotle is owned by McDonalds. and that when they tore that McDonalds down, its corporate brass stood in the ashes and rubble and shook their fists at town and said, “we’ll be back, you hippie assholes. and we’ll get your dollar. we’ll just change the sign hanging out above the door, and you dumbasses won’t know any better.”
and they were right.

so anyway, I ate that entire burrito, right? it’s a big burrito. shouldn’t have eaten that much, but so it was. that was at like 8, 8:30.
I went running around 10:45. this three mile loop around campus (fuck the track, I’ve had enough). I cramped up about halfway through, kept running. I really hate stopping cause of cramps.
/gets a little graphic here on out/
totally spewed that burrito into the gutter about a block from returning to the apt. I should have known better, or at least, should have let it settle more before exercising. it was like my body was reminding me just what I was eating, where I was getting it from.
but probably not. it probably just doesn’t like me deciding to work out with a ton of food in the stomach. okay, fair enough.

I think when most people go to record stores, they go with something in mind. like, “I’m going to buy the new White Stripes album.”
I go to add to a record collection. it’s like a tiny little ego trip. I wander around until I find something that suits what Ashley once called my “delicate sensibilities” and take it home. it’s becoming a fucking shame that I don’t have a CD player in my car, cause my tapes are becoming really tired. I tried to listen to this Avail/Misfits split I have yesterday while I was working, and it sounded like I had left it in a gallon of vinegar for a couple of months. and I’ve got stacks of CDs lying around my apartment, that I don’t get around to listening to – and yet I go back, again and again. and probably will when I get free of the paper today.

what’s on my shit list for today (I’m in a list mood. noticed?):
Fleetwood Mac: Tusk – okay, the title track is fucking sick awesome. they used the UCLA marching band to record it. but I like “I know I’m not wrong” even better. just for the chorus, which is sick awesome catchy.
Fugazi: 13 songs – I like around half of the 13 songs. so it would seem only appropriate that I buy the album… no?
the Misfits: Earth AD – ain’t nothing like horror punk.
Tom Petty and the motherfucking Heartbreakers: Damn the Torpedoes – please. somebody tell me this is a bad album. please. so I can hate you for the rest of your life.
Bruce Springsteen: either Born to Run or the River – cause you can’t step to the boss.
Handsome Boy Modeling School: White People – even though everywhere I go for this album, it’s fucking expensive.
De La Soul: 3 feet high and rising – just because.
and whatever album “whore monger” by Non-Prophets is on, but I’ll just give that up cause I’ll never find it. if you find it, tell me, so I can break into your house, steal it, and raid your fridge and make it look like you just made a mess in your sleep, all ninja-style.

what’s Matt gonna get? any of the above? who knows! the suspense is killing me, too.

so I was really thirsty tonight. really.
and not like thirsty thirsty, like “I need alcohol” thirsty. I’m just straight thirsty. like “I’m parched” thirsty.
I had nothing in my fridge to drink. nothing at all. I found about a half a gallon of orange juice in my freezer, and I’ve been waiting for about three hours for it to thaw out. every ten minutes, I was tilting it back and sucking out whatever was liquid. and finally, I thought fuck it, and got in the car.

so I go to the grocery. this is like a half an hour ago.

I will never get it, I think. I’m really bad about impulse buying. this is what I got. thank god for my Kroger Plus Card:

12 pack of Snapple lemon tea: 10.69 (motherfuck, that’s expensive – but necessary).
gallon of apple juice: 2.50 (saved 99 cents!)
gallon of lemon/lime gatorade: 3.50 (saved 1.94!)
one, just one of those frappachinos: 1.99. I drank it before I got out of the parking lot.
1/2 gallon of skim milk: 1.25 (saved 1.14!)
3 pack of soap: 1.00 (saved 1.39!) what… I need soap. that’s just what it is.

total savings: 5.46.

cost about 22 bucks. I held back from buying beer; my brain clicked on for about ten seconds, and reminded me that it would just sit there until Josh drinks it all. fuck that leech.
I’ll never go thirsty again. at least until I run out of Snapple.

okay, so I went home last week. funeral. gotta bury the dead.
a lot of stuff happened, even though it seems like I didn’t really do anything.

alright, most importantly, I’m listening to “hounds of love” by the Futureheads and “the promise” by When in Rome. that’s a good basework right there, now you know where I’m at.

let’s start with the first thing, which has been eating my insides for the last few days.
I gave the dog up. surrendered her back to the animal shelter.
it started, I don’t know when, but when I first realized that she wasn’t going to make it in my apartment.
if I had named her I would have called her either “bugs” or “wheels.” Wheels, cause she has them. and she uses them, constantly. Bugs, cause she’s bugfuck crazy, especially when she’s out of doors.

(oh, and I’d like to give a shout-out to my main man Spencer. Einstein wasn’t bad, man. thanks for at least trying a name. as for the rest of you…)

okay. that dog can run. and did run, any chance she got. I spent hours, literally, hours. hours wandering around the neighborhood (which in Valpo, is about a quarter mile from corn fields and open country) looking for that dog. she bolted any chance she had. figured out how to open screens. slipped through doorblocks.
she loves to run. and when she gets out, she doesn’t come back; she runs until you tackle her, which isn’t easy. she knows how to avoid an open field tackle, like an undersized running back on speed.
and this was at my mother’s house. which is a world away from Bloomington (which is a lot more urban, compact, traffic-filled and yardless: even less condusive to what she needs). so I kind of came to the conclusion, after the fifth or sixth time she took off, that the dog was the wrong fit for me – or more precisely, I was the wrong fit for the dog. wrong for where I live, how I live. I’ve got people coming in and out constantly, the door’s always open. she needs a yard, and even more attention than I could give her, which was a lot anyway.
reality bit me in the ass. and it sucked.
I took her back today. got a lot more upset than I thought I would. I wish I would have cried, but I didn’t. crying takes a lot for me. don’t know why. it was a different feeling. like that deep pit in your stomach feeling. like you’ve fucked up, failed on some dark level.
forfeited my adoption fee, donated all the supplies and shit I had bought her. it’s not that I think she’ll be put down (the shelter has a 95 percent adoption rate, or something equally astounding, and I gave her a glowing personality description). but I feel like I failed her.
a dog isn’t human, and I don’t treat them as such, but it still doesn’t like to bounce around from shelter to home to shelter, etc. you can see that in how they act, how they flip out when you take them from a familiar place, to strange surroundings. I don’t like knowing that I got in over my head, tried to provide for something that lives and breathes, and got it’s hopes up. do dogs have hopes?
she’s a good dog, someone will pick her up. life goes on. it’s better for both parties, the dog and I, in the end. that’s what I’ve been telling myself, that’s what everyone’s told me.
so long, dog. I hope someone with a yard and a fence happens upon you. you taught me the meaning of humility. seriously.

okay, what else.
so I was at the wake on thursday. for some ungodly reason, it was expected of the more immediate family to be at the funeral parlor by 1 in the afternoon. “family viewing” was at that time, before people started trickling in.
it was disgusting hot out. and the first time I’ve been in a tie and jacket in over a year. I’m 22 years old, don’t know how to tie a tie. my brother or uncle always have to do it around their neck and then toss it to me, and it always looks like shit cause the knot’s crooked, and I can’t get it to lie right around my neck. shirt never seems to fit right. pants are always too tight.
but god damn, do I look good in a shirt and tie. I think it’s just shock. I’m normally wearing something like corduroy pants and a shirt I bought at goodwill five years ago. so when I actually clean up for an event, I remind myself that I can pass into respectability, even if it’s only a short time.

okay, christ, anway. I can ramble, no doubt.
we’re there for a few hours, bored as fuck. so Mike and I (Mike is my brother, who is married and 34) cut out to get some eats at the gas station across the street. there’s a McDonald’s actually in the fuckin’ gas station. how’s that shit for convenient?! haven’t eaten at one of them in over a year, at least. so I break down and have me a filet-o-processed-grade D fish. Mike goes with the cheeseburger.
he says he’s got to tell me something. that always starts like, “I’ve got to tell you something.” which means it’s gonna be a bomb.
he’s done it a few times. I’m the first person in the immediate family, I think, to get some of this info. me or Mar. and I’m pretty good about steeling myself for news which could totally suck. he could say, “Matt, I’m hooked on rock.” or “Matt, I’m getting a divorce.” “Matt, my favorite Rocky movie is Rocky 4.” something cataclysmic like that. what he says, though, is different.
he says, “I think Virginia is pregnant.”
that’s my sister in law. he’s going to be a father. I take another bite of my giant fish stick sandwich.
I’m going to be an uncle. more importantly, though, he’s going to be a father.

how far this family has come.

a lot more went down. lots of anecdotes, funny stories. but I’m covering for Mark at 10:30 tomorrow. so I’m leaving it for later. goodnight moon.

we find our protagonist (me) at the Patio, a banquet hall on Broadway in Merrillville, In.
it’s1 pm, Friday the 24th. there to celebrate the life of Uncle Steve, who the party just buried. the food’s not bad, and there’s an open bar. who really cares if it’s only an hour past noon?
an assortment of relatives and friends are at his table. most he knows, a few he doesn’t. most importantly (for the purposes of the story) Uncle Bill is there, and as usual is leading the conversation. he has, some would say, the gift of gab. not always the most appropriate gab, but he sure talks a lot, nevertheless…

“Valerie told me once, out in DC, when a Vietnamese family left the apartment complexes, they’d have to rip out the bathrooms and refurnish them after they moved out.”
another mourner took the bait, just to be polite: “oh yeah? why’s that?”
“well,” said Uncle Bill, clearing his throat, “they’d catch stray dogs and cats and barbeque them in the bathtub. they eat dog over there in Vietnam, so they’d do it right in the bath tub. have to rip out the furnishings, cause the place would be a mess.”
Cousin Barbara glanced down at the side of beef on her plate, and put down her fork. “for Christ’s sake, Bill. I’m trying to eat.”



I could write a great book on Uncle Bill.
a lot of shit went down this weekend. but I have to work in ten minutes. so it can wait.

I’m lying in idyllic sleep tuesday 9:30 am. I was dreaming about something. don’t remember what.

first, the land line rings. it’s Smith.
“dude, I’m sick. I’m throwing up, I can’t work. you gotta cover for me.”
I’ll be honest; I was thinking, funny, you weren’t fucking sick when I saw you eight hours ago.
he was opening. opening shift starts at 10:30. I was supposed to work at 4 that afternoon, and was expecting the morning off. I told him to try and find someone else, and if he couldn’t, I’d show up. you gotta have love for the homeys.

I go back to sleep.

9:45 am. cell phone rings. cell phone is more or less directly next to my head, as it’s doubles as my alarm clock. I had to start using it as one back in like februrary, when my neighbor (whose bedroom is just a thin wall from mine) complained to me that screeching white noise coming from my alarm clock every weekday morning for a half hour was keeping her up, and she was trying to recover from a rare kidney ailment. what can I say, I hit the snooze a lot.
it’s moms on the cell phone. Uncle Steve, who had been transported from his room at the nursing home to intensive care at the hospital, died there sometime early Tues. morning.

Christ. okay, okay. you can’t be rude to a family member who just lost a loved one on the phone, no matter how early you think it might be. you buck up, cause Uncle Steve is dead.

I call Smith at 10:15. he says he can’t get a hold of anyone. I get up and get in the shower.


to be selfish for a few moments, this all put a cramp in my plans. what I was going to do, actually, was go to the animal shelter and pick up the dog that I had applied to adopt on Monday. that was supposed to be at noon. instead, I was dealing with self-important university secretaries who can eat a deli sandwich the size of their heads instead. bunch of deadbeats, they are. don’t tip at all.

but that’s okay. I handled the morning shift, got off at 1:30. I called work, got the manager to give me an extra hour of leeway, and I got the dog at 3:30. was at work by 4:45 pm.

so let’s recap:
Uncle Steve tapped out. the wake is back home thurs, the funeral is friday, and I’m a pallbearer. I’m going to shave, get a haircut.
I worked a double today, and still only managed to make around 20 dollars in tips. for six hours of work. bunch of scumbags in this town, I swear to god…
I got a dog.
not a big dog. only about 45, 50 lbs. 8 months old. she’s spayed. loves chew toys. pulls like a motherfucker on the leash. is surprisingly (and delightfully, no doubt) housetrained. Galia treats it like an infant, what with the baby talk and positive reinforcement. whenever I walk in the door (and it’s only been about 12 hours since I got the dog) she screams “daddy’s home!” and the dog goes bananas. this is going to have to change.
her name, or what they called her at the pound, is Chloe. that’s all well and good. but I’ve been kicking around a few other names, based on her personality and my amusement.
the dog will unofficially answer to “jackass”, cause I have a habit of referring to any dog I’ve ever owned by that name. “chloe” might stay. but, I was thinking about calling it “Uncle Steve”, even though she’s a girl. or maybe “Uncle.” ooh, that one sounds hip!

so I’ve got to get some sleep. I work at the paper tomorrow, and I need to sleep, cause I’m driving back up to Valparaiso for the wake and funeral. gotta pay my respects; Uncle Steve was a crotchety old bastard, but he was my uncle, and deep down a pretty good person to boot. besides, the family is gathering. it’s like shit that only happens every couple of years. like Haley’s comet, or a good Steve Gutenberg movie. but when it goes down, it goes down. punks don’t even know, but it’s going to get rowdy. I envision lots of casual drug abuse (not by me, I’m a pet owner), potato salad, and plenty of expired diet coke (the only thing that ever seems to be around to drink at mom’s house).
I think the best word to describe this weekend would be “volatile”.

oh, and guess who’s coming back with me?
the dog!
but I can’t keep calling her that. I need to decide on a name. so, I’d make choices, or a butterfly ballot, so that heads can rock the vote: Matt’s dog’s name 2005, but that’s too involved. so instead, everybody who reads this (and I don’t care who reads it, everybody) should cash in and leave a comment. think I should call it “flapjack”, or “Uncle Steve”? tell me. think I should call it “Judy Garland’s extramarital affair”? fine. just explain yourself.

I’m probably not going to update this til at least sunday. we, ahem, don’t do computers back home. we don’t take kindly to no internet stickin’ it’s nose in our business. but I’ll check in, and let Jackass know what everyone thinks she should be called.

oh, what… you want to see a picture of the dog, asshole? well, here you go:
http://www.petfinder.com/pet.cgi?action=2&pet=4569629&adTarget=&SessionID=42b917b563e6002b-app5&display=&preview=1&row=0&tmpl=&stat=

I know I’m totally setting myself up for a burn here. I’m going to get like two replies to this from the faithful. but fuck it. all those people who come through here looking for “giant cartoon chicago boobs anal” can at least fucking contribute something for once. it’s not my fault I don’t know how to overload this blog with sweet, sweet pornography.

now, if you will excuse me, the dog is asleep on my foot. and I need it back to walk on, so I’m out.
I’m out.

ps: if anyone will find God, it will be Stephen Krochta, may he rest in peace.

so I went running, just now.
I didn’t run after I got out of the paper. instead, ate a big old bowl of cereal and ate a veggie burger.
I was going to go after that, but then, I got the spirit moving me and decided to vacuum. and to clean the bathroom.
and then, was going to go after that, but Galia rented “the Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.”
and that didn’t end til around 2 am. and then we started watching ElimiDate. which I swear, I swear I wouldn’t watch if Galia wasn’t around. I mean, I watch a lot of shitty television, but I still have standards. for God’s sake.

so I went running. ran from here over to Woodlawn field. started doing laps.
no cars really pass at night. the occasional police cruiser, but beyond that, you’re on your own. it’s nice at night. I’ll be back over that way in 7 hours, when I work. there’ll be people everywhere. it’s amazing how they all disappear in the middle of the night, the dark.
I saw a fox, though, actually. came out on the track right in front of me.
it was thin as a rail. gray (grey?). had a possum in its mouth, and was carrying it’s front right paw. started going right down the path, right in front of me.
by this time, I was on lap six, and being in such amazing shape, was breathing hard. was running heavily. fox didn’t seem to hear me, though. I was right up behind it, probably twenty feet behind it, had to clap my hands to catch its attention so I didn’t scare the fuck out of it when I ran right by it.
it turned, saw me, and just kind of ambled off to the side of the track and let me pass.
almost like it was like, “oh, my bad, dog. I’m up out.” and I was all like “it’s all good.”
I didn’t turn to see where it went next, but by the time I had made the backstretch, I saw it across the street. went up the stairs and into some bushes in front of the geology building.
it can’t be far. couldn’t have been far from here that it started out the night.
it’s amazing, animals right under your nose, but you just miss them in the daytime. just like people at night: I’m running on a dark track in the middle of the state’s university at 2 am, with people all around me, entirely alone.

I wish I knew how to make a countdown. like, have an atomic clock that ticks away seconds until the beginning of the motherfucking Pierogi Fest.

BECAUSE:
the other editors at the paper have suggested that I start writing stories. the city and state editor, did, specifically. and I like him. his name’s Cordell, he’s from DC. so I think if I do start writing, one of the things I’m gonna cover in the holy name of the Indiana Daily Student will be the pierogi fest.
I don’t think punks will be able to handle it.
so, in the spirit of anticipation, I’m going link krazy. look to your right… holy shit!

I don’t know why I spend so much time on this, the pierogi fest. I just find it so odd… such a bizarre way to express regional heritage. but, all of the small towns in the area do the festival thing.
check it out, these are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head…
Valparaiso (hometown) – Popcorn Fest: Orville Redenbacher lived there for a few years.
Portage – Elvis Fest: uh, Elvis never lived in Portage.
Chesterton – Wizard of Oz Fest: supposedly, a few ageless munchkins show up every year. so tiny and wrinkled, like giant raisins.
Kouts (population: 1698) – Pork Fest: ho ho, that one is interesting. the main event is a tractor pull.
Plymouth – Blueberry Fest: cause, you know, blueberries rule.
Wanatah (pop: 1013) – Scarecrow Fest: because all the other ideas were taken.
and, of course, the motherfucking Medaryville Community Potato Fest. that one’s known to get rowdy.

alright, I’m at the paper, and it’s getting a little busy. I’m out.

I’m listening to the Postal Service. only to be taken in small doses, cause they’re a little weepy. but “such great heights” is a beautiful song. reminds me of the winter, and snow, and driving. so fuck you.

worked a double today.
wasn’t so bad. made some money. played some Donkey Kong.
I can almost get past the third level. up there, the air gets thin, and Kong starts separating the poseurs from those who really want a piece of his giant gorilla ass. I’m not yet ready to pass that gate.

beyond that, everything has been pretty slow.
tomorrow’s father’s day. so I have to call out to Virginia to Dad. I got a letter in the mail from Debbie. says Dad had his esophogus stretched. Jesus Christ, that sounds like it hurts.
Dad doesn’t seem to have aged well. granted, he’s what… he’s 57 years old. but even so, every time I go back out there, it seems like his back is hurting a little more, he’s got a little bit more of a spare tire, his hair is graying and receding just a little farther. I guess that happens with people you don’t see often. I haven’t seen my Dad day in and out for over a decade. for 10 or 11 months of the year, he’s been a voice on the end of the phone. so when you go out there, and Dad’s carrying an extra 15, you tend to notice.
I’m not saying anything people don’t already know, so let’s move on…

my main man Spencer sent me an email, suggesting I put up a homeland security color-coded warning system on my web log. that’s it over on the right, underneath the recent posts. the current level is “Bert.” Spencer gets a gold star next to his name on the wall for that. he’s my fren til the en.

also, if you noticed, I figured out how to put links up on the page. those are on the right, too. shit, that only took me about eight months. I’m so cutting edge.
I finally figured out how to put them on there, and didn’t know what to link to. I mean, I thought it would be inappropriate to link to other people’s blogs, especially if I don’t directly know them – and I really don’t visit that many websites. so I worked with what I got.
Wonkette is funny, in that “I spend way too much time thinking about politics” kind of way.
David Rees (get your war on) is funny, in that “I’m a liberal and we’re all dumb and fucked” kind of way.
the IDS is funny, in that “Matt shouldn’t be the copy chief, because he misses entirely too many spelling errors and factual gaffes” kind of way.
but anyway.

next for the blog, I’m gonna figure out how to put pictures up too. maybe I’ll scan the ones I got back from spring break. they aren’t that great, I’m pretty bad with a camera, but it still gives you an idea of where I was, what I saw.
which reminds me of a funny story (read: juvenile), actually, when last year during winter break, I (in a fit of stupidity/boredom) took the family camera, held it behind my back, and pulled the elastic of my sweatpants away from my body. got a nice and clear shot of my ass, looking straight down.
Mom was ecsatic that I’d found my artistic side, had finally let my inner child express itself, and told me so by calling me disgusting. and I’m sure the high school grads pulling hours down at the one hour photo were even more amused.

that’s all. it’s late, so I’m going to sleep. I could use sleep. when I’m tired, my first reflex is to stay awake as long as possible. like I’m still five, and don’t want to go to bed. staying up late, cause you were sure all the cool shit was going down soon as you were put down for the night. sneaking downstairs, watching Ted Koppel over the shoulders of my parents from a dark doorway. 11 pm was a new dimension. and I wanted to be a part of it.

let’s set the mood for where I’m at right now.
I’m listening to “good people check” by Themselves, and “Jesus Christ” by Slim Cessna’s Auto Club. both great songs, check em out.
I’m not drunk anymore – but I guess I wasn’t drunk to begin with, just a little tipsy.
and I’m buck naked. what an evening. (hold your breath, ladies! he’s single!)

went and saw Batman Begins tonight.
I don’t wait for movies much. especially for blockbusters. I never, never say I love a movie, and when I do, it’s always a certain kind of movie that takes me, that I really enjoy. for instance, I proclaimed that I loved the Royal Tennenbaums when I walked out after seeing it.
but, I remember after coming out of the Two Towers, Smith called it “bad ass” and I made some smart comment about how lame it is to call a movie “bad ass.” Smith got pissed at me. this was like two or three years ago.
I realize I shouldn’t have been such a buzzkill, but that scene was fitting for how I often approach movies: they’re basically false reality, they just spoonfeed heroism and morality to us, and we shell out 8 dollars each time we want to forget that we’ll never be half as cool as the guy on screen is.
see? buzkill. and I don’t really feel like that, only when I’m in some sort of mood swing, when I’m feeling really critical. I mean, how would anyone ever enjoy film, or even a book at all if that’s how you approach whatever medium you’re using? I’m not that jaded anymore, I’ve grown from the Two Towers incident. I let go of all the steam heat.
what I’m trying to say, through all of that bullshit is, it takes something special, special to get me pumped for a big budget action film. and I don’t know what it is, but I was excited for the Batman movie.
I don’t know what it is about the character. it’s not like I read the comic books – I never got into that, but Batman always seemed human and flawed and COOL at the same time. real dark character, had a lot of shit on his plate and skeletons in his closet. so when the movie came out, I was psyched.
it was seriously great. (break me of a piece of) Christian Bale was great, just as good as Keaton was. the backstory, which is central to a movie called “Batman Begins“, was really well explained, and well written.
beyond that, while you’re obviously in Batman’s corner, that motherfucker is scary. which is the reason he dresses up in black and a cape in the first place anyway.

okay, so check out the movie. what else…
went to some party being thrown by a coworker. Dagwood’s (like Smith says) is by and large an employer of stoners, slackers, and hippies. for some reason, they just get hired.
to point: we used to have a crank addict on the payroll. she was nuts, no doubt.
but this girl, she’s in a sorority. and she lives in this big house that she and a bunch of her sisters rented for the summer, as they had to move off of campus when the semester ended. so it was largely a greek party, in June, on a Thursday in Bloomington, with a light sprinkle of Dagwood’s idiots for good measure. for sure, I represented.
had a good time. paid way too much for a cup. oh well.

so I’m driving a carless and drunk Josh and Smith home.
we pass by Bryan Park pool, and someone’s like “lets go swimming.” it’s 2:30.
we keep going though, cause I’m fucking driving, and we get into Smith’s apartment complex, and he points out that they recently installed a pool and jacuzzi. and that he has a key to the gate, and we should go. we just got in with our clothes on.
the jacuzzi was nice. we made too much noise, we accidentally set off some sort of screeching alarm trying to turn the jets on, and I did the old “sit in the hot tub for 20 minutes, then jump into the cold god damned pool” thing, and Josh did the old “I was raised in a barn and have the social function of a toddler” and pissed in the deep end. good times were had by all.

and that’s why I’m naked. I’m back in the apartment, waiting to dry off, and cant’ find any clean clothes to put on. I mean, I only have a single pair of shorts, and I wear them literally nonstop.
they’ll be stiff as a board tomorrow from the chlorine. oh well. I’ll break them back in.

THUS ENDS THE NIGHT. oh my word, it’s 4 am. good thing I don’t work for another 12 hours.