rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

I bought “Harvest” yesterday.
I went to the record store looking for “Honky Chateau,” but ended up with Neil Young instead. I’ve never really listened to this album before, but it’s pretty slick. “out on the weekend” or, you know, “harvest,” are the best tracks, I think.

Gerald Ford died.
well, what a fuckin’ coincidence that is. I was just about to write about what an interesting conundrum Oliver Sipple presents to journalistic integrity.
well, apparently, it doesn’t matter if you’re at odds with your sexuality if your queer ass will sell newspapers. and also, it appears Harvey Milk wasn’t gay Jesus. man, fucking everybody did wrong by this guy.
even Gerald Ford.
but enough about Oliver Sipple. let’s get back to Gerald Ford. the only president in the nation’s history who wasn’t elected.
you know, nothing really momentous happened under his administration besides the Nixon pardon. but apparently, that’s all anyone ever wanted … I mean the calm, not the pardon. no one wanted the pardon.
but seriously, after Nixon basically acted like a fucking mafia boss in the Oval Office, calm, boring, Neanderthalesque Gerald Ford took the reigns. nothing flashy. nothing exciting. just a steady, soothing calm. which, in the mid 1970s, I’d imagine the nation needed.
I wasn’t alive, so, you know, I can’t really have my pulse or draw from my own experiences, but that sounds about right.

I lost my copy of “Dracula.” I think I left the fucker at the laundromat, so I’m going to go over there and ask around. but that’s assuming that they speak english (they won’t) and that the book was turned in to the attendant (it probably wasn’t).
son of a bitch, I was two hundred pages into that book. I’m not going to lie and say I was in love – Stoker’s voice almost reminds me of Jon Lovitz hosting “Tales of Ribaldry” on SNL – but it was an interesting story, and it was actually beginning to go somewhere.
so instead, I’ve got two other books to start cracking: “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72″ by none other (props, Mike) and Solzhenitsyn’s “The Gulag Archipelago.” that should take me about six months, so I’m all tied up. again.

also. I bought a plane ticket for Orthodox Christmas.
the word is out.
I was about to buy the ticket, and I called home. Mar told me to think on it before I bought it.
so I called Mike. he said there’s nothing wrong with going home. just think on it.
so I said “fuck it,” and called mom. and she immediately had that concerned voice.
“I don’t know, Matt. it’s an awful lot of money.”
then I explained to her that it was because I won my fantasy football league that I was considering it.
and then I felt guilty about going home, like I’m tapping out, and kind of embarrassed
…
good god fuck. why am I reading so much into this? I’m going back for three days. it’s not a big deal.

I normally go to this bar downtown, kind of a dive, for lunch. the Owl. it’s got a lunch counter.
the woman who works the counter at the Owl now recognizes me.
the woman who works the counter at the Owl knows I get the cheeseburger and fries and a Pepsi.
“you get de chee burger, yes? wit de Pepsi?”
that means that I’ve fallen into a lunch rut. but still, the woman who works the counter at the Owl rules.