rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

it’s been an interesting week.

work was late tonight. lightning struck the building, and the computer fried out. so I think somebody had to run a CD written with PDFs of the entire paper up to a sister paper in Woodbridge. which is like an hour and 45 minutes north on a two-lane highway through the woods. so yeah, good luck with that, guy.

I saw mister Rufus Wainwright with a friend last night.
he is very gay.
but he’s also very talented, and a wonderful singer. which is more interesting and important. kind of hard to describe. very clear and full.
haven’t been to a concert in a while. saw Scott Lucas in a Chicago bar with Neil about three months ago. and speaking of which, Local H is coming here. next month. so that should be cool.

tomorrow I’m gonna try and do Skyline drive through the National Park after the ol’ going-away lunch for one of my coworkers. mexican food. hell yes. Mexican food is my weakness. it’s my fucking kryptonite. but one thing I can’t bring myself to do when I come to a new town, it’s do the sit-down restaurant thing by myself. which is better, cause I eat less shit, but it also means it’s been a pretty Mexican-food-free summer, and that’s a damned shame. so, by god, I’m going to make up for lost time tomorrow. get ready, Guadalajara.

alright. ID.
I kind of fucked up earlier this week, over something I’d been looking forward to.
no, that’s not right. let’s try it agian.
something didn’t play out the way I had hoped it would have. and now, it seems that door is closed. which kind of sucks.

so yeah, here’s to the here-on-in.

so I removed a squirrel from my apartment after work tonight.
I’m sitting at the top of my stairs, drinking a beer, looking at the squirrel. baby squirrel. it’s awake. and it’s hanging on for dear life to the wall, like we’re on a asteroid hurling through space. how the fuck it got in here, I have no idea.
actually, I think I do. but that’s not what’s important. god damned squirrel is in the apartment. who cares how.
so I call my landlord. I left him a message.
“hey, Mr. Johnson. It’s Matt, over on Hinton Ave. I’m sorry I called your home phone earlier, I didn’t mean to wake you up. sorry if I did.
“anyhoo, I’m sitting here, looking at a squirrel. it’s on my staircase. honest to god. so, uh, if you want to come over and see about whatever else is running around in my walls, let me know. great. thanks.”
I used an oven mit and a laundry basket to get it outside. where it’s probably being ripped apart by the neighborhood predators right now. but fuck it; I’m not sleeping with a god damned rodent running around an apartment that’s the size of a large closet.

and also, I just want to mention something: I’m watching a cable TV movie called “Project Viper.” it’s about robots that take over a space shuttle. this shit is brutal.

“I hope that growth on your back goes away. hmm … what an awkward thing to write on a postcard.”

by god, have I been worthless the past day or two.
my apartment is clean. or cleaner. and it’s hot as balls outside, which discourages me from doing anything. but I’ve got to work in a couple of hours, and I can’t wait until Sunday. I’m doing something. I don’t care what.

walked down to the bank yesterday near the campus – I mean, The Grounds. yuppies.
all the way there. walked in, sweating like a pig. apparently, banks have greeters now. blonde girl with big rack. sex sells checking accounts, I guess.
well, either way, I walked my dumb ass all the way down there in 90 degree heat, and I had the check stub. not the check. slick.
so on the way back, I picked up an album by Jenny Lewis and the Watson twins. it isn’t as good as I’d hoped, but it’s got a couple of decent tracks. and I’ve got to get backup singers.

oh, and check this out: I’m going to see Rufus Wainwright next week. he’s gonna be at the downtown amphitheater. ampitheater? how do you spell that?
so yeah, Rufus Wainwright. next Wednesday. word up.

there’s a raccoon or something or other on the roof of my house. directly above my kitchen. and it can creep you out if that noise gets the drop on you.

so anyway, plans for tomorrow.
I want to make a lasagna. to do that, got to go to de sto’. so that’s two things right there.
I want to find the record store downtown that isn’t the shitty one I’ve been checking out for a while. also: I bought Bjork’s “Volta” today. I can’t say just yet. but I’m three tracks in, and “the dull flame of desire” is pretty fucking good.
I want to buy a plant. a nice, full, fern.
I want to go and talk to someone about getting a few digital photos blown up so that I might hang them. think “Salvation Mountain: a series.”
I want to buy Christmas lights. my stairwell is dark, lest you use the bare lightbulb that I can’t reach. and that’s just too harsh.
I need – not want – to scrub the floor. and the stairs. and clean the bathroom.
I want to be in front of the computer at 3 p.m. for a fantasy football draft. which is probably the gayest thing you’ve ever heard.
I want to see about adopting a cat. big news, yeah, I know.
I want to scream out the window as loud as I can.

and if I can get even half of these things done tomorrow, on my day off, it’ll have been a productive one.

Spicoli went to Venezuela to see Hugo Chavez Helping the People.
the fact that this is on a celebrity gossip site strikes me as ironic. for some reason. either way, Sean Penn’s a jackass.

it finally happened. I read something in Newsweek that wasn’t a complete waste of my time. cause it turned me on with this:

oh boyits a youtubevideo

this guy asked a bunch of pro-life protesters outside a clinic in Illinois – and this is old, apparently he thought of this a while back – he asked them if abortion is made illegal, what should be the criminal penalty for the woman who has one? how much jail time?
the heartland rubes who get thrown this fucking curveball stare back at him dumbfounded. they have honestly never thought about it. and I don’t expect thinking hard on that subject will actually change anyone’s minds, but it is something to think about.

oh, and the Newsweek column. right.