Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Edgar Allan Poe's LiveJournal:

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Thursday, November 25th, 2004
12:40 pm	Of the Many Many things I find myself Thankful For on this day of Feasts and Benediction, the "Online Personality Test" is by far the most Immediately Pleasurable. Divining meanings through the answers to very simple questions, I have found a Right and True affinity with the Red Converse Hi-Top ("Classical yet edgy", they say) and have come to learn that if I were a dog, A Dog! I would be a Labrador Retriever. Oh, but were it this easy... Tarot Cards and Ouija Boards and Astrologers and Opportunists of the lowest caliber also abound. I do not understand how such personal predictions and predilictions can travel through this ether with any clarity. My doubts Double and Triple with each mis-fortune I read. take for example, fine reader, the Excuisite Piece of "Literature" i have been declared ~ Charles Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil. You are one of the most loved and hated poetic works. Death and decadence are important themes for you, but none should overlook your impressive aesthetics, either. Deep down youre not evil at all, you just like to play the tough guy on the block. Which literature classic are you? brought to you by Quizilla Charles Mother Fucking Rat Bastard Charlatan-At-Large Baudelaire. That mountebank! That counterfeit! That peddler of purloined poetry! On this day, let me also note my Thanks for the proliferance of On~Line Absinthe dealers. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 22nd, 2004
9:59 am	A Singular Horror in Triplicate Had I known that my Hopes were fraught with delusory longing... These Triplets of Belleville, Harlots, Perverse Strumpets Three! Oh but no, that was not to be. Libertines only by reputation, by the time I had sad chance to glimpse their venerable offerings, they had ripened and ripened and ripened so that one could barely recognise the genius they were claimed to have. Stories of allegory and fruition ~ dear friends pay close heed ~ need temperance. Through Laudinum or Likeable Characters. As for my absence ~ I have been recently inducted into the Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo. My shuddering derision of the aliteration aside, I have to admire my newfound friends' tenacity. Despite being, for all intents and purposes, a non-entity, they have such a strong hold upon my heart. Sweet music calms the demons inside and offers sweet respite. Current Mood: listless (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 25th, 2004
8:54 pm	Nature is a temple whose living colonnades, Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs; Man wanders among symbols in those glades Where all things watch him with familiar eyes. Like dwindling echoes gathered far away Into a deep and thronging unison Huge as the night or as the light of day, All scents and sounds and colors meet as one. Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound, Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress, -- And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound And of an infinite pervasiveness, Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, that excite The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight. - Baudelaire In, as they say, the parlance of our times; Mr. Baudelaire, you may well very suck it. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 21st, 2003
8:39 pm	That infidel Baudelaire! Even in this Age of Fleeting Fancy and outrageously-paid Lawyers guarding against the Outrage of Libel, I find so many mis-repesentations and mis-calculations when I conspire to spy upon myself through the looking-glass of Google. It must be that Baudelaire, he has always been one to further his quest for Fame by creating evermore interesting shadows to lurk within. Humbling is a word that comes close to encompasing the mood for a man realizing that he must live through eternity paling in comparason to me; I do believe that he has done a fine job of creating a sense of austerity-by-proxy. There are myths that Must be de-structed, however. No matter how fitting the countenance may be, I am not Roderick from Fall of the House of Usher, nor is He modeled after Me. My love for Virginia ended when I put her into her tomb, I did not wither and suffer because of her, or because of my memory and wanting of her. No, dear friends, my suffering was borne on the wings of a syphilitic angel. Virginia, the Sweet Succubus, gave to me a gift far more lasting than any memento mori. Valentine, a poem that most believe to be written for my dear Fanny Osbourne, is not. The poem is now, and always has been, Grist for the Mill. It was penned under dire circumstances for a mere pittance because, as I have noted before, my fondness for Bourbon sometimes got the best of me. Instances are many and repeat, the paramount task of dispellation tires me. Lies and Chicanery, all. Feh! Baudelaire! The truth that I cannot avoid is this; my darling Sara once wrote these words, "had I youth and health and beauty I would live for you and die with you. Now were I to allow myself to love you, I could only enjoy a bright brief hour of rapture and die." Through them I have become Immortal, and she has, as prophesized, gone on. Oh, rapturous hour, how many times I have re-lived you... Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Monday, May 26th, 2003
11:32 am	I believe they are called Flip-Flops How Vile! These long springlike days languishing into springlike nights... My Eyes, how this time of year brings out the worst in me. How can I possibly chase my Dragon and speak with my beloved Green Fairie with the racket of clamboring puppies (for the love of a beautiful woman, Puppies!) and children on their bi-cycles and adults on their motor-cycles and the deadening swishswish of this newfangled footwear? How my beloved Hop-Frog would have loved all of this... I would have had to kill him sooner. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, March 19th, 2003
12:23 am	The Lion Speaks All of these Motion Pictures, so little time. I continue to keep my Adventures indoors; ever since the incident at one of these so-called Raves, I've felt the need to remain confined, my soul weaving amongst the cobwebs of my humble abode. You have won this round, Eyeball Paul, but I will be back. Oh yes, I will be back. So I venture further into the history as written in Film ~ All About Eve and Natural Born Killers were on tonight's marquee. Now far be it for me to speak of gratuitous violence and rage, I know little of such things, and honestly, I am completely shocked to see scenes of such blatant outburst. Please, all, watch the tale of Eve. My dear Mrs. Bette Davis shows far more contempt and ire with one bite of a stalk of celery than Woodman Harrelson invokes with a feature of guns and knives. Times are kept by their stories. It is true, friends. This Modern Age shows no cruelty, only common violence. There is no real bravado, only Batonga! What was once subtlety and grace with a hint of venom is now unmitigated and unintelligible. I hope there are storytellers of a worthy caliber still crafting and honing their skills. I hope to run across one in a dark tavern some afternoon. That is, should I choose to venture out again. I would certainly take this person under my wing, possibly continuing onto under the table. ~~ For further research... an abomination, an abhorrence, a splendid horror has found its way to me. Modern Drunkard, a periodical of the finest caliber, is under the misconception that I am, on one hand, quite dead, and on the other hand, quite a "glass liver." Although I have not met Mr. Hemingway, nor read any of his work, I did see his daughter, or perhaps grand-daughter, in They Call Me Bruce? and ye Gods I must hope beyond hope that Delerium Tremens run in the family. Lest I sidetrack myself, this account has me mixing Wine with Bass Ale and Coors, and if that is not disrespectful enough, it is alleged that Mr. Hemingway floors me with a glass of the sweet Absinthe. Oh my dear, misguided authors, please, if you simply must write about my habits, take the time to learn of them. Let me say to you now ~ If I can blend Laudinum with Opium and enjoy the resultant elixir for breakfast, i most certainly can handle a "Tall-Boy" of Coors. I did not give up the drink for my health, I did not give up the drink for my fortune, and I certainly did not give up the drink for love, you may ask my dear beleaguered Sara of this. Be it forgone that I most certainly will not fall prey to the drink in the addled mind of a pettifogging journalist. Current Mood: irritated (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, February 10th, 2003
11:10 pm	This day has brought much Joy and much Pain. The Joy is encapsulated in this small exchange ~ http://homestarrunner.com/sbemail62.html. I have found that if one were to click upon the semblance of StrongBad while it's atop the pen, the visage will change. This also holds true for the hapless HomeStarRunner. Also, when a character grimly called The Cheat enters the room, there are lightswitches that may be turned off and on. These seem to have no bearing on the conversation that is happening, but upon reflection, I have to admit that I have no idea what they would have said had I not been changing their faces three times per second. I do enjoy watching the lightshow, however. I have much to learn about The Lightswitch Rave, and resources on the topic are limited, but I am intrigued. The Pain. Oh yes, the Pain... There is one thing that troubles my mind this evening, I have just learned that a Ms. Reed has been re-writing my work! She said, and I quote liberally, "These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe/ Not exactly the boy next do.'" I'd like to point out that my name is pronounced "Poe." as in Edgar Allan Poe. It does not rhyme with do. Or two. Nor does it rhyme with through. The closest associations I am able to give are bow, toe, and my favorite of this new vernacular, schmoe. Let me also point out that I do live next door to someone. I shan't say to whom. I've been reading about this Ms. Reed, and I have found that she's very fond of wearing velvet and prefers the underground. Being a New Yorker, I would have thought she would call it The Subway, but then, perhaps she is English by birth. As much as I do not approve of judgment of character based up on physical appearance, I must note that Ms. Reed is a very homely woman and perhaps it is because of her appearance that she sees fit to find creative ways of whiling her time. I, myself, have taken up the very unmasculine passtime of knitting (having read an article that gave me, in no uncertain terms, a feeling of certainty about the increase in 'street cred' that knitting would give me. I have mastered the perl, the cable knit, and have developed an intense fascination with mohair), perhaps Ms. Reed would like to learn that, or cross-stitch. I feel her time would be much better spent. I'm sure what she lacks in beauty she can cultivate in domestic charm, and will perchance someday find herself a good man. I believe your motves are pure, Ms Reed, yet the things that you do cause great pain to me and my house. I feel that you are doing an irreparable disservice to my life's work and if you only knew the horrors I have seen, the things that inspired me to create my characters and situations. I read an interview wherein you declared, "If you sit down and read Poe, you sit down and read him with a dictionary. He's an amazing scholar with words, but a lot of these words were very obscure in the first place when he used them. So I looked all of them up and brought all of them up to date so we would know what he's talking about. And I wrote to sound like him. If you knew nothing about Edgar Allan Poe, never read him, never heard of him, you would do fine with this record." Let me assure you that there are souls out there that feel the same pain, that see the same ghosts, that fall prey to the same midnight and waking nightmares... The language I use can be understood by every Opium Addict and Ivory-Towered Scholar, every Roustabout and Ruffle-Shirted Fancy. For it is not the words, Ms. Reed, but the intent. Please, Louella Reed, cease and desist, I implore you. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, December 27th, 2002
10:37 pm	Following the White Rabbit Sweet Trinity - Neo, Morpheus, Agent Smith. Which is really the agent of evil? Is it Morpheus, the seeker of truth? Is it Smith, the one who works to keep the status quo? is it Neo, the one who lives in both worlds? Is it wrong to want to live in and enjoy a comfortable live, even if the life is more fiction than fiction itself? Can it possibly be a duplicity if one is truly unaware? How, I ask, is it noble to look for the truth amongst the squalor, when no one will, or can, believe you? oh, sweet Trinity, how I wish that you were the good - how I would like to fly with you above the city, encased in your leather cloak, learning your secrets. Hearing your whispers... If only I could name Trinity as the evil ~ If only she were the temptress, greedy, selfish, insane, prone to debilitating fits of ennui... Oh Trinity, you could be the seductress, the Whore of my Personal Babylon. If I were to ask, would you wear the robes of the Green Fairie? Oh, the visions you put in my head, Trinity, you will haunt my days and fill my nights with such vision as I have never imagined. There is much that i don't understand about this genre you call Science Fiction, however, I have also come to realize that I don't need to know a lot; the suspension of belief is inherent to enjoying a good tale, and much like in life, I find myself accepting the things I cannot comprehend. I do not know how my Remote Control device works, but I believe that by pressing the correct buttons, I can seamlessly navigate the Channels of Entertainment, avoiding the monsters of Daytime Soap Operas and not getting snared by Sally Jesse's Siren call. I know that if I suspend my disbelief, that large sharks will haunt beaches, that cat-eating creatures from worlds beyond will be welcome houseguests, that oxygen really gets clothes cleaner, and that any flights of fancy are possible. I have dedicated my life to the suspension of belief, the suspension of reality, the suspension of the laws of nature ~ Oh Trinity, there is more to you that I'd like to suspend... (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 25th, 2002
12:25 am	Hic Tandem Felicis Conduntur Reliquae Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring... I can agree with the opening lines of this unfortunately popular poem. The night before Christmas it is indeed, and although there are Stirrings in the house, they are of no Earthly creature. Some mentally and possibly morally befouled gentlemen who have came and passed in the times between my times saw fit to close the liquor stores early on this pre-holiday. How can one stand these constant innundations of advertisements and small cartoonish children and all sorts of modern horrors without a stiff drink or three? If I cannot have morphine or Chase the Sweet Dragon, why must I be denied the small joys I have come to find in a decanter of Laphroiag? Texaco has come to my rescue on many a late night, and on this eve again, I will seek refuge under its neon canopy and enjoy the newfound wonders of Robitussen. Wonders of this day and age ~ Absinthe is forbidden to me and yet I can create a veritable liquid wonderland any time of the day or night with an inexpensive bottle of what the kids are calling 'Tussin and a few cans of Jolt Cola. These are things sold to children! Do the parents know? Is this invention of my own creation? Sweet readers, I wish you a good night and I share my hope for the New Year ~ may your sleep be unfettered and your visions not manifest. For this New Year, I hope to explore more of this world; I have heard that I can obtain copious amounts of Codeine in Canada, and while I'm a bit leery of a milder dose of my favorite breakfast, I have hopes that I will find adventures in this Land to the North that Admiral Richard Byrd never even dreamt of. My own grave in Westminster is another destination ~ the Heavens will sound and run red with the blood of angels if it is true that a lonely sandstone block engraved only with "80" marks the spot where I once rest my head. However, before any of these distances are travelled, I must find a fitting way of celebrating my birthday. Yet for now, the neon canapy awaits... (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 23rd, 2002
8:15 pm	so true ~ so, so true. We are all stars in the dope show. Current Mood: hungry (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 14th, 2002
2:09 pm	So many days and nights have passed, dear friends... So many things, so many ideas, so many new and unusual experiences. This last evening, I was fortunate enough to happen upon a late-night showing of the story of The Human Spider, only his name was mercilessly and unimaginatively shortened to SpiderMan by a garish and quite roguely Master of Ceremonies of a sporting event I hope to explore ~ wrestling. I will explain my new fascination with this sport anon. Now, The Human Spider awaits. Much like another incredible being, your BatMan, The Human Spider came to be through a bizarre and fascinating array of mishappenstance. The equal portions of love, lust, guilt, and power blended in him to create a hero, while his foe, a rather flat character called the Green Goblin, seemed to take those same ingredients and make a bitter, bitter elixir. I find these modern tales visually interesting but rather one-dimensional. As much as i was intrigued by the possibities inherent in such a tale, the intricacies that could be spun, so to speak, from the basic story are awesome. However, there was something missing. The concession stand does not deal in Bourbon. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, March 31st, 2002
7:42 am	Reynolds! Many of you have written about the recent deaths of many well-known celebrities, and I have performed an investigation or two. Dudley Moore strikes me as an agreeable enough fellow, though it is difficult not to conclude that his decline had already begun when he left behind the fetching Bo Derek for the harpyesque Liza Minnelli, whose failure to emit a loud "caw!" when she speaks always manages to catch these aged ears of mine off guard; This "Uncle Miltie" apparently engaged in antics widely deemed amusing, but as I do not seem to be able to learn more about him without being struck by an overwhelming thirst, I will simply say that we do not share a sensibility and congratulate myself on my restraint; On the other hand, Mister Billy Wilder ~ Oh, he is a man I dearly wish could have shared many a long conversation with! It is quite obvious that he was a true visionary, one who offered his audiences an astonishingly wide range of emotions and moods to experience. They are emotions that sometimes stir deep within the recesses of my too-too beating heart, yet I have found it nearly impossible to explore them with anything approaching his mastery; indeed, I have often found it all too necessary to merely gesture towards its existence elsewhere, fettering fortune to granite in the rubble of damp catacombs. I am told that William Holden once described Mister Wilder as having "a mind full of razor blades"; he did, no doubt, feel their sting on occasion. Yet their cut could not but be precise with such a mind to guide them, and no nicks were accidental. One might hope that Holden go in search of a styptic before making such an observation and thus putting us all at risk of never experiencing Mister Wilder's brand of clean-cut; I also feel compelled to admonish all of you, my friends in this happy medium, for neglecting to mention the wonders of film noir to me ~ it was an oversight, perhaps, but a strange one indeed, knowing as you do of my penchants and predilections; I have little to say about the demise of the Queen Mother, but one must applaud her for maintaining such flawless composure despite the readiness of her bottle. Ahh, you knew not of mum's fondness for the tippling? How little we all know, when we consider our stores of knowledge honestly. Still, it is difficult not to wonder how her corporeal shell is faring. Even Anglican bishops pronounced her thoroughly pre-pickled. Current Mood: pensive (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, March 18th, 2002
10:04 am	A fine gentleman who calls himself "Sting" once said, "There's a little black spot on the sun today. It's the same old thing as yesterday..." At first, I believed him to be speaking leterally, and I looked out at the sun. I didn't remember seeing any black spots the previous day, but I'd been inside much of the afternoon, tasting various whiskeys. While there were no black spots visible to my naked and uneducated eyes, I did happen to see purple blotches when i looked at anything else for the next 20 minutes. Fearing I had caused irreparable ruin my eyesight, I ran inside for a bit of Port. This Mr. Sting sang to me again, this time of Walking On The Moon. I don't believe I will again fall prey to his attempts to sway me. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, February 1st, 2002
1:44 am	A twilight pondering... Please tell me, oh my dear friends, what is this thing called Love, it seems so different in this day and age. There is no sense of permanence, no undying passion. I ask you, what means this word now? (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, December 14th, 2001
2:17 pm	Wonderful inventions! Yes! I don't know why it has taken me so long to figure out the intricacies of the Washing and Drying machines in my house, but let me say now that I curse all the days I have spent looking at them in amazement and wonder. Now that I know I can dispense with the delightful, yet a bit too old for my liking, washerwoman and enjoy my other new machine in peace. She was nearly indespensable. Nearly. Although her constant nagging, "Edgar, you need to go outside more. Edgar, you can't bring young girls home. Edgar, what will the neighbors think? Edgar, that is a horrible movie, turn it off..." It hurts my ego to admit that she was correct on that last statement, however. I had enticed her to sit and watch "Hannibal" with me, mistakenly thinking that the company of an intelligent, though plain, woman and a few bottles of brandy would make for an enjoyable evening. She refused my invitation, and although I was hurt by her rude manner, I was determined to enjoy the film on my own. I thought that perhaps I would enjoy making further acquaintance with Mr. Lecter. Lo, how wrong I was. This Hannibal character was absolutely despicable in the first documentary - he was gifted with the most clever and sharpest mind I have ever seen ~ in life and within my own deplorably twisted imagination. His later exploits, though, became sloppy and without finesse. His once elegant tastes seemed to turn into a line delivered to appease his fans, rather than a mark of distinguished and cultured breeding. Now I must place him in the modern annals of mass-murders alongside Mickey and Maolry; no longer may he reside in the capital genius category. Let me ammend, i believe that Mickey and Malory were possessed of a finer, albeit less refined, sense of drama. They knew exactly what they were doing, and did not care about the consequence, as long as one person lived on to tell their tale. This Hannibal had no such finesse, he wanted fame of a different sort, and he tried to get it. Inexcusable, Egotistical, and Sloppy. However, now that I know a Re-Frigerator is used to secure young women's hair, my kitchen takes on a whole new light. It seems a bit bulky and cumbersome; however, there must be more to this white box than i thought. (What loathsome creature inspired me to relieve my washwoman of her duties before I realized this... Curse you!) (Comment on this)
Monday, December 10th, 2001
2:55 pm	What nefarious villainy is this! After my months of searching through the so-called "horror" writers of this century, the endless viewings of "Salem's Lot" on late-night television ~ all the Anne Rices and the Boris Karloffs and the Doctor Evils of this time have yet to come up with a scoundrel as wonderful as this. As these. Absolute enemies. Born from the same mother yet opposites in every way. One claims that he is good and that he will help mankind with his particular benevolent brand of tyranny. The other acknowledges his true nature and revels in it. The first charms and engages and makes the world feel at ease with his powers, Look at all the joy he can bring! masquerading his intentions and trapping his followers with a false trust. The other makes no move to hide his plans; his attempts at domination do not go unnoticed. The only one who can stop him is his brother, and with this action, his brother must then be subdues. It is a Sissyphusian story of eternal struggle between siblings. A struggle for power over themselves, over each other, over the entire world. A struggle that can never rest, that can never have a winner, that dooms the brothers to an eternity of battle and strife, never resting, never retreating, and never giving up hope. A battle that leaves the world caught in the balance, swaying between the influence and authority of each. These rogues, and their story, were born of genius. Their names, simply, Snowmiser and Heatmiser. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, November 9th, 2001
2:06 pm	Well, well, well? I?ve taken a much-needed break from this internet and have been spending my days wandering the streets in deep thought and contemplation. As the season turns from autumn to winter, I have noticed quite stunning changes between this new time and my own, changes that i had anticipated, yet wasn't quite ready to accept. I must note that outerwear, while much less stylish (may I find myself filled with enough catlike venom to call modern ?coats? downright ugly? Yes, I think I may), is a great deal warmer. Unfortunately, coinciding with this newfound warmth is a greatly reduced excuse for the afternoon Hot Toddy or two. While I will not let this outerwear inspired modesty to take over my day to day habits, I am more aware of my actions. Another transgression of this modern time is the ?leafblower? ~ a most pernicious use of hired help. These atrocities wake me up from all manners of naps and other afternoon diversions. Why on this forsaken earth can people not use the rakes and controlled fires that make for a quiet and rather pleasant yardcleaning experience? Why must every task be automated and envolumed? The simple crackling of the leaves as they char and sputter out of this existence is so calm and peaceful, the sensuality of the ash as it winds its way heavenward ~ why has this become a thing of the past? Antiquated like so many other simple pleasures ? elegant overcoats, chivalry, afternoon tea, a good opium pipe, all gone the way of the pleistocene megafauna. Alas, perhaps I should spend more time acquainting myself with this new age and less time longing for the past. I have found a most pleasant way to bide my time between deep thoughts and sleep. A wonderful reality game called ?Quake.? (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, September 14th, 2001
3:19 pm	Oh lovely vision, please leave me on this day. I wish my eyes glazed with an opacity far beyond the deepest black. I wish to see no more of these atrocities ~ one of the alleged "news" stations was just broadcasting an interview with a man who had spoken with his wife on a "cellular phone" while she was on the aeroplane hell-bent for your Pentagon. The gentleman was composed, poised, well-groomed, as was his interviewer. Questions were asked and answered, but they were of little consequence... Tactical information; what had happened, how did she call, did she know where she was? No question and no answer for "did she make her peace?" No question and no answer for "were you able to comfort her?" No question and no answer for "were there things unspoken?" My dear friends, this is "your horror" because this does not belong to me. It is not of my time and not of my creation. This is a horror brought about by fanaticism and zealotry and misplaced tyranny. It is brought on from outside forces, inorganic, unfeeling. My horror begins where your so-called news ends. My horror lies with those who do not know whether their loved ones are among the living or among the dead; those who go to sleep at night with hope, and dream the touch of their lover, only to wake up alone ~ night after night. My horror is that of the infant, trapped, cold, and hungry. My horror is that of the loyal dog, who stays with its companion, licking his hand and desperately trying to unearth the rest of him, wimpering as the flesh grows cold. My horror is that of the "lucky" bystander whose dreams will be forever filled with images of strewn and falling bodies and the smell of the explosion. These are more terrible than death, good friends. My horror lies behind the churning eyes of the individual who thinks "what next?" So you see, this is not my horror. Mine has yet to begin. Current Mood: exhausted (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 4th, 2001
2:27 am	ere I saw Alba... As I was watching television this evening, I saw an advertisement for a program called Dark Angel. Most enchanting creature, this Jessica Alba! Be still, my beating heart, and noiseless be in thy flights, o non-winged william! Good heavens, look at her. I did not think it possible for a woman to outshine the fair Angelina, but Ms. Alba has managed to park her motorcycle directly in my heart. I must confess that one of the most appealing aspects of living in today's society is that many modern women walk about in boots and leather. Something about such accoutrements, particularly when worn by people who have a talent for clomping around decisively, resonates in my very Soul. According to some informal research I have conducted, I am evidently something called a "sub." In any case, the premise for Ms. Alba's show is most intriguing. She is, apparently, genetically engineered and possesses a small amount of feline DNA. Good lady Jessica, I could make you purr. I now have a task to occupy my Friday evenings. Current Mood: impressed Current Music: bob dylan - farewell, angelina (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 2nd, 2001
1:51 am	As I enjoyed a sumptuous supper of Cornish Hens and Claret this evening, I noticed a movement on my wall: a tiny red dot, moving quickly and erratically. What lurks within this wall, I wondered aloud. A lost soul, perhaps, trapped behind these wood panels, which I am told were popular some time in the 1970s? A spirit of '76, as it were, closed up to pine away in my very abode? Peals of laughter from the street without interrupted my ruminations, at once breaking my reverie and causing a seed of doubt to germinate. I investigated further with the wondrous help of "Google," searching for "red dot on wall." As it would happen, there was a more scientific explanation for the phenomenon I had witnessed: a device called a "laser pointer." According to a youth named Ryan Tivey, "A lot of kids have them.... I think they're neat because they annoy people." Miserable street urchins. Swarming gadflies. And yet ~ I must own one. Current Mood: as if I can do anything else... Current Music: Bee Gees - Stayin Alive (2 Comments |Comment on this)