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  I Can Read Your Eyebrows

18 October 1999

10:37 PM: Ohhhhhhhh me oh me. A kind of slow rigor mortis is setting in tonight, leaving me in that modified mantis posture known as Typist. Long long day. My site is so late. How late is it? It's so late, assholes from Europe send me stupid emails, and I can't even yell at them, because they're right. Oh I hate that.

So I got here at 9:30 this morning and I've just been typin' and a-typin' ever since. Sometimes, though, you know, the things I have to read...

The evening's host is J_______ B_______*, a wiry 31-year-old video artist and tireless microcinema promoter with a dark goatee and a sensibility to match.
A sensibility that matches a goatee? Does that mean something? Besides, "I have a handy box of clichés right nearby, and I find them to be a tasty substitute for thinking."

Hey, how about those Red Sox, huh? Pretty fuckin typical. Actually I blame the Mets. I thought it was a joke, but they really are the Undead Team this year. They sucked all the luck out of the Western Hemisphere the other night in that 15-inning limpathon, and the Sox had no chance. Or even less of not a chance, I suppose I should say.

Very odd dreams this weekend. One semi-lucid flying dream, I almost went into low Earth orbit, I just kept going up and up and up. But then right as it was that very dark blue and the curve of the world is visible, I felt myself think, "Bye." And then just fell back all the way down.

Then later that day, some more of those especially tormenting domestic bliss dreams, where nothing much really happens except that I'm with someone and we're tremendously in love but we're so over the disgusting initial phases and now it's just sunny and pajamas and tea and smart remarks and naps on the couch. Very boring, it's wonderful. And to make it worse, this one marked the debut of my office crush. That's not good, it means that I'm taking it far too seriously, and that I'm going to have to get a new one. If only they'd stop quitting for a few months! Sheesh. Give a scary pathetic loner a break here.

2/28/2000: Unbelievably, this guy actually wrote me and asked me to remove his name from the page here. You can all go find out who he is by reading the original story from Wired magazine. I don't think he understood that I was mocking the writing. I don't think I care much, either. Sheesh.

Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.

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All names are fake, most places are real, the author is definitely unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
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The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne.