I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong

Ooooooh, just saw Joseph Arthur again. Good show. Not as good as he was at the Fine Line last fall, but still good. At the Fine Line, he maintained a sense of musical tension in the air that seemed to almost vibrate with kinetic potential, like any moment an aural dam would burst and the room would be flooded inescapably with liquid sound-and-fury. He wore a neon green suit without a shirt under the jacket and seemed born of and to the music crackling about him.

This time, at the Varsity theater, it felt more like a standard issue concert. They played songs. He wore a brown jacket over a blue shirt and he also looked to be fairly drunk. Fortunately for Joseph Arthur a standard issue concert is still pretty good.

Also, Mara horked the set list for me after the show and I have it taped to my wall. Pretty classy.

Heading home to Rochester tomorrow to attend Mary's wedding on Sunday! I'm also going to do roughly a metric crapton of laundry. But mostly I'm going home for Mary's wedding. People my age are already getting married. Should I be feeling old at 21?

have to die for the fifty more?"

Ugh, I just made the worst oatmeal raisin cookies ever, they came out looking like fake rubber vomit. Like there was this computer game I played back in middle school called Day of the Tentacle, and to solve one of the puzzles you needed to drop a disc of fake rubber vomit on the floor and these cookies look exactly like that.

In conclusion, I don't know anything about any cookies in the garbage.

I was going to walk downtown today to apply at Barnes & Noble but it's RAINING. I don't think I'm going to have another opportunity to do it until Wednesday. Argh.

"We live for just the twenty years, to

Whew, Kori came to visit on Wednesday and left this morning and it feels like he was here a whole week, mostly because of yesterday. Because holy crap did I ever do a lot of walking on Wednesday.

1. walked downtown to the Art Institute (he had an appointment with the admissions guy, I tagged along)
2. walked to various places downtown
3. walked back to the apartment
4. walked to the weird military surplus store on Nicollet (turns out it's military surplus + the accumulation of decades. If I had size 5 1/2 feet and a significantly fatter wallet, I could really go nuts with the shoes, because there are a ridiculous number of mint condition vintage shoes, particularly in ladies 5 1/2, and I don't even know how this happens in a military surplus store)
5. walked to every imaginable convenience store in the franklin/nicollet area to find celery for Kori's meat loaf (unsuccessful)
6. walked back to apartment
7. walked to Acadia for coffee
8. walked to the Walker
9. walked through the Walker (they have a new exhibit that's a wall projection of a computer animated dolphin they call "the oracle," you type in questions to it on a keyboard and it "answers" them in dolphin moonspeak with helpful english subtitles. When asked if there was any place within walking distance that sold celery, it gave us the only straight answer we ever got out of it: no.)
10. walked around the sculpture gardens
11. walked to the little store across from the apartment (purchased some slightly fishy but workable celery, stick that in your pipe and smoke it you stupid dolphin)
12. walked back to the apartment
13. collapsed into a semi-vegetative state (no walking required)

The meeting with the admissions guy at the Art Institute was pretty interesting, since Kori wants to go there to major in culinary arts and it's something I've sort of idly tossed around as an unlikely possibility. So this was pretty much a chance to get the culinary arts major rundown without having to pretend I was seriously interested. It did seem a bit appealing. I think I'll wait to see what Kori thinks after he does a semester. I think I'd be a lot more attracted to the prospect if it wasn't going to cost about 40k to get what is essentially an associates degree in "feeding myself."

Her breadwinner begs from the bathroom floor

Yikes! So as I've mentioned before, I post on this forum, right? The people who post there are known as goons. It's a thing. Anyway, another goon posted a series of pictures of the house she's moving into, and I was bored so I follwed it back to the root directory. Goons tend to have funny pictures squirrelled away here and there on the internet, so I figured it'd keep me entertained for a little while, right?

So I'm poking around the directory and I come across one titled "resume." Which I assume is just another silly picture or something.

Nope. It's her real resume. And as it turns out she lives exactly eleven floors above me. WHOOOOA, who feels like a creepy stalker now?

All the way from Washington

So in other news I just superglued my pants to my foot.

D'oh.

Pushing around a weather vane Jesus

So I just found out that Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday

and I just, I don't even know

I remember the first time I finished Breakfast of Champions I sat back and realized, with a small sense of amazement, that somewhere in the world the brain that produced such a book was busily firing neurons, that somewhere in the world (probably Manhattan, come to think of it), that author was alive. Such a wonder! Sartre died before I was born, Whitman had long gone to dust, but for a few decades I milled about God's green earth with 6.5 billion people and a crotchety old Manhattanite named Vonnegut.

And he kept on living, too, long after the words of Slaugherhouse 5 and Breakfast of Champions and God Bless You Mr. Rosewater had sifted through my mind and settled into forgetfullness at the edges of thought. Except not anymore. And it's like when Mr. Rogers died, when everybody woke up too late to the cold realization that Mr. Rogers could die. And now that band of light has winked out and I'm stuck here, pondering it all.

How strange it is to be finite.

And all you hear are the rusty breezes

I must have looked like I have some kind of serious marshmallow peeps problem when I checked out at the Family Dollar today because the cashier gave me this crazy look (twice!) while she was ringing me up. Me and my shopping basket full of peeps.

For the record, I don't actually have a peeps problem. I take them camping. You ever enjoyed a warm, gooey peep, carefull toasted over a campfire until the sugary outside melts and hardens into a thin candy crust? No? I didn't THINK so, ma'am.

I DON'T HAVE A PEEPS PROBLEM

I CAN STOP ANY TIME

ANY TIME

Wheat kings have all their treasures buried

So speaking of dreams, this morning I woke up to find I'd taken a chomp out of my lip some time during the night.

I had been dreaming about mashed potatoes.

For the second night in a row.

All I can say is there had better be some mashed potatoes or something at this Easter because if I wake up missing a limb I am going to be VERY CROSS.