rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

stupidity
disclaimer for this first bit: I’m a little drunk. not a lot, but a little.
I made a promise to myself a while ago that there would be certain things that I wouldn’t write about anymore; not on such a public forum. these things, they come across as unfocused, often juvenile, and always personal. makes for some pretty weak blog. and lord knows, I’d hate to water it down for you.
but what won’t I write about? drug use is not one of them (because, ho ho, if you read hard, you’ll find it), and politics is definitely fair game. people say you shouldn’t bring up sex or politics at parties, as it isn’t polite.  but I can refute this idea with two points: A) fuck that, and B) this definitely isn’t a party.
but what it is I want to write about, well, I’m still not gonna write about. I can’t break that unwritten rule, though I can obviously spend 200 words referring to it. but, just for kicks, you’re more than welcome to imagine what it may be. you, reader that I probably know on a first-name basis, you can fill in the blanks! and who knows how close you’ll actually be.
here’s a hint: it’s not beastiality. I mention this just to narrow it down, of course; it’s not like I’m secretly trying to tell you I want to fuck a farm animal. that is not the case.
… 
but oh, fuck it. fuck it. it’s women. I make it a point to not write about women. explicitly, anyway.

hoops
Indiana has gotten rocked for two straight games now. I’d make a case for being disappointed, but I’m not, because I know better. they’re gonna suck this year, and I should get used to 30-point blowouts. there will be more.

employment
I’m not going to lie, I haven’t applied for a new job in a few weeks. tonight, I saw a job with the Saturday Evening Post in Indianapolis. I didn’t even know this publication still existed, but what the hell. didn’t Norman Rockwell used to do the illustrated covers for them? 
Rockwell was the shit. pop art from the 40s. he’s got a museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, that I’ve been to an awful lot. my aunt lives in western Mass, so my dad would take us there to kill time during extended visits. it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
but anyway, the job. I am going to gun for this, because I want it. I’ve got it mapped out already: they’ll hire me, and I’ll sleep on Smith’s couch for a few weeks while I move my shit from Va. and find a new place to crash. I’ll do this for those few weeks, and maybe next August? I’ll go back to school, and launch into a new career that I haven’t yet identified and which may not exist, and when I walk the streets I’ll be followed by maybirds and they’ll announce me, and I’ll smell like roses, and my debt will go away, and people will sing me praises.
oh god, would I do this.

stuffing
my brother asked me to make the stuffing for Thanksgiving. this is a heavy responsibility, and I will not fuck this up. get ready for the best stuffing you ever overloaded on, Thanksgiving! I’m pulling out the stops.

music
I heard a song at the gym the other day. this is not a good way to introduce music; generally, the music at the gym eats a dick, and when I acknowledge that I heard it while toweling sweat off of myself in a room full of naked, middle-aged men, it reveals to you that I am not Hep to the latest on the Music Scene. this is okay, because I can live with your terrible fucking judgment. fuck you, Josh, cast your eyes away.
the song is “cellphone’s dead” by Beck. and according to the all-seeing eye that is Wikipedia, it’s been out for, what, two years? where the fuck have I been?
either way, I like the bridge, moreso than the rapping. this song, it actually inspired a blog post headline, which was gonna be “head west” — I make a point to have the post titles appear nonsensical, which I’d imagine no one has noticed – but then I went out this evening, and shit changed. either way, here is the song. I like Beck an awful lot, ridiculous Scientology be damned.