I wake up naked with smoke coming from the kitchen. It's the pasta salad I tried making before passing out somewhere around 7:00am. It is now a black cake. Someone with parkinson's is ringing the doorbell. She tells me her belt is broken and she absolutly must get it fixed as Melissa Ethridge would be furious if she did not wear the belt buckle she gave her. I look around and realize I have no idea where my car is. It's 3:30 and I need to go to work in an hour and I'm walking all over ALlentown looking for a shop that sells belts. I run into the director of Squeaky Wheel which I haven't been to in three weeks as I keep telling them I'm working everyday and she tries to talk to me about some technical issues related to the cable access show I was programing there. I can hardly string sentences together and the woman who needs a belt is comping at the bit to find one. The director gives me a perplexed eye and I continue down the street looking for the belt and my car. I find the car in front of the tarrot card reading house on Elmwood, ditch the search for the belt and drive to work to find out I got the salaried full time position starting in September. I also left my plunger at the pink last night. Very confused at the moment, good night.

I stop working this Sunday at my current job and am in need of another one to hold me over until September when I just might start a full time position. Anyone know of someone looking for a landscaper /drywaller /concert producer /stagehand / videographer / receptionist / projectionist for summer employment? Until I find something, I’m looking to enjoy summer to it’s fullest in my time off, so anyone interested in camping / hiking / relaxing at the beach let me know. I have a soccer mom mobile and am willing to drive.

Robin, we desperately need our plunger back. Please bring it back ASAP.

Thanks for blowing my spot Paul. Yes, I type my entries in word and paste them into the box, my spelling is atrocious. This also explains why I do not use the spell check. It is doubtful my spelling ability will ever increase to the point where I am comfortable writing without training wheels, but I have been making an effort to due so at work when I write in my notebook. Having been introduced to word processing in elementary school, nearly all of my writing that I have done has been done on a computer. Unlike those who learned writing without a computer, those who were forced to somewhat clarify ideas in their head before externalizing them as they did not have the ability that word processors do to instantly edit and manipulate their writing, I have difficulty sitting down and getting ideas directly out of my head and on to paper or the computer in the order I would like them. I’m practicing on changing this, but change comes slowly when you’re trying to change something you’ve been doing all your life, like biting your nails, or smoking. Speaking of smoking, I have wanted to quit since the moment I realized I was addicted. That was six years ago. Waking up in the morning is the worst, feeling groggy, bad taste in your mouth, and knowing that sooner or later you’re going to have to have that first cigarette which knocks you on your ass, and eventually go and pay someone five dollars to get through the day. The first cigarette I ever smoked was at a Yolk concert at Trader’s Sport’s bar in Vestal, NY, a dumpy bar that eventually was bought up by Taylor Garbage service that kept their garbage trucks in the back. Always one to make a spectacle of myself, I bet a friend that I could smoke an entire cigarette up my nose. I did so, up the right nostril if my memory serves correct. I then repeated this shtick numerous times for other friends, coworkers at Subway, and I think at once for members of my church youth group. My church youth group, that’s topic enough for several journal entries: Handbells, handjobs, and Jesus. That will have to wait, in the mean time back to smoking. I think in all honesty I smoked about half a pack of cigarettes up my nose over the course of a month before ever putting one in my mouth. I suppose the rest is history. Speaking of history, and in response to Lilho’s last entry, I have historically been fascinated with poop. I don’t know what spurred this fascination, but if you ever want to talk shit, I’m your man. Here’s a performance proposal I wrote for my performance art class last semester that was to include the five senses. Someone should enact it and let me know how it goes. Documentation would be fantastic to see:

The act of defecation remains one of the -if not the only - functions of the human body that reconnects it to the natural world. Through both the physical act itself and the spatial context in which it occurs, the individual is isolated from societal self reflection and his or her actions become directly meaningful to accomplishing the task demanded by the body’s natural processes.

Other such processes essential for the survival of the human as a natural being have fallen from meaningful natural acts to those of performances. The act of consuming energy in food has become a ritualistic performance with the rise of the culinary arts in the presentation of food and the display of proper “table manners� in it’s consumption. Tastes for food have become contingent on market and social forces. More often than not the majority of food we consume bears little resemblance to anything that could be found or sustained in nature. The act of sleeping has more or less been bastardized by outside forces dictating the proper posture, apparel, and amount of time one is to engage in this act. Even urination, the sister process of defecation, often becomes subject to forces outside those of the natural. Etiquette is widely discussed betwe
en
men as to the proper amount of urinals that must separate two men in the bathroom when possible, and an argument can be made that a unique bathroom discourse has evolved between men while engaging in this act. Younger women often travel to the bathroom in packs or at least pairs and occupy the same stall urinating while talking among each other.

The elevation of the aforementioned acts to meanings far detached from the natural processes themselves has for the most part not acted upon defecation. Physically, the act of defecation reconnects the body to that of a natural composter or consumer of energy. Regardless of the appearance or setting in which the food was consumed (a five star restaurant or a TV dinner) this matter will be ejected from the body in an identical form regardless of one’s position in the “social hierarchy.� This strips away for the time being any pretension of superiority one may feel while among others outside of the act of defecation. One can eat better, sleep better, and fuck better than another according to relative social standards; but is it possible to shit better than another?

On the strict psychological level, the context in which defecation occurs offers the individual a spatial and temporal area in which all outside influences and perceptions of audience are shed. Using Ervin Goffman’s theory of the Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, defecation with it’s status as a social taboo and the manner in which it is hidden behind closed doors may offer the closest opportunity for an individual to realize his or her self in its most sincere form. With surveillance technologies encompassing more and more areas in which the individual could previously believe his or herself alone, it has come to pass that there now stands few places one can go where he or she is certain to be free from the gaze of the Panopticon. The simultaneous growth of literature and media representations dictating the proper actions and appearance one is to exhibit has left few spaces where one can feel as if he or she can act in a natural, audience free “backstage� area. Without seeking such spaces, or actively searching for self-awareness, the mandated daily act of defecation may be the one time the individual has to his or herself to act and think in a manner separate from the dictums of the social environment.

Dedicate up to 24 hours free from any other obligations or interferences that could distract from successful completion of this sensory experience. Cook or purchase a meal to consume. Note it’s appearance, texture, smell, flavor, and the sounds emitted from the act of consuming it –i.e. cooking, chewing, swallowing. Focus exclusively on these sensory experiences while clearing your mind of any thoughts unrelated to the act for which you are engaged. Should you choose, attempt to isolate each sense by removing all others –i.e. to isolate taste place yourself in a completely silent and dark space and do not chew. Following the meal, choose a secluded space and attempt to reflect upon this experience using a medium of your choice. While reflecting, continue to notice sounds and sensations occurring from within your body as the meal is processed in your digestive system.

When the time comes, utilize the same attention to sensory experience as was undertaken while the food matter was brought into the body. Position a mirror across from yourself and observe yourself in the act of excretion. Concentrate exclusively on the nuances of your bodily movements. Listen intensely and breathe deeply. Summon memories of the scent and flavor of your meal. Compare the sensation of touch and movement of your hands to those you observed while consuming the food matter. Stare intently into the mirror before you and take yourself seriously.

Reflect upon this experience in the same fashion and medium as was done following the meal. Use the objects created through both periods of reflection in any way you see fit.

Thanks for the hospitality last night Paul, Terry and Mathew. I hope my housemate and I didn’t wear out our welcome. It didn’t really occur to me at the time, but I hope your downstairs neighbors didn’t get upset with you for impromptu dance party that took place around 4:00AM. Speaking of dancing I worked the last dance recital of the season this evening, I’m sorry to see them end. Oh, Jill, I’m serious about starting a dance group so be warned that I will begin to hound you about this once work begins to die down. I’d like to elaborate more, but I have to return to work at 7:00AM tomorrow for the Guitar Festival load-in. Sleeping will be a little difficult this evening as the man in the middle of this photo is currently wailing out on guitar in my living room. Who am I to try to kill rock and roll? Going to find some earplugs and hit the sack.

After observing a shady white van with white tinted windows parked outside the Pink last night, the conversation turned to pedophiles. I cannot recall who spoke of always being told to look out for and never get in to a white van when they were a kid, but I’m pretty sure it was Paul’s brother – though it may have been Mathew - who said his parents told him the white van was good, and should he ever see a white van with kids painted on the side he should surely get inside it. My parents, well specifically my Mom, were constantly warning me about all sorts of situations in which I could get molested. I swear she warned me weekly about child molesters. She told me to look out for teachers, ministers, janitors, strangers in cars claiming someone in my family was in the hospital and they were sent to pick me up, neighbors, coaches, and on and on and on. Everywhere I went I swore someone was about to molest me. My mom even warned me of different situations that could unfold. Obviously the “it’s our little secret� was hammered into my head as a red flag that I had just been molested, but the scenario that I remember fearing the most was being pushed into a corner and fondled while using a public restroom. For this reason I always used the stall whenever I had to use the bathroom. No one was to touch, nor see MY private parts. No sir, my private parts are for my eyes and hands only. When changing for swim lessons, I was always the kid in the stall. Later in life, after discovering the joys of Wendy’s Superbar, I became the guy who always wore his shirt in the pool: “I burn easily.� Even throughout high school, after outgrowing my chubby little self, I did all in my power to get out of the state requirement for swim class during gym. I couldn’t deal with having to strut around half naked with fifty of my peers; changing for regular gym class was difficult enough. I even remember being slightly uneasy about having to change in my dorm room with a roommate at the beginning of my freshman year. I don’t know exactly what did it, but my sophomore year I became obsessed with having “boxer / beater “ parties where I’d sit around with friends drinking wine in undershirt tank tops and boxers - though it may have been due to the fact that it made the transition into the sack a little easier with the ladies. Somehow this morphed into me constantly stripping down into my underwear whenever I got drunk and dancing around. Oh shit, I completely forgot about one incident my freshman year when I was dancing around in my underwear outside of the dorms during some battle of the bands thing that was going on. Upon finding that the residence hall association had rented a hot tub for the day I ripped off my underwear and jumped in. The ten or so people that were enjoying themselves in it at that moment came flying out of the tub faster than if I had taken a shit in it and I was promptly thrown out and threatened with arrest. Perhaps this was the moment when I realized how enjoyable it was to be naked with strangers, but my true appreciation of this did not fully make itself apparent to me until that one fateful evening at Liz’s house the Thursday before my graduation last month. Now I find it very much a let down if a party I go to or host does not end in an all out naked fest by the end of the evening. It’s surprising how comfortable people can be with each other when they’re not trying to hide and conceal their body from others and, at least for me, there is nothing really sexual about hanging out with others in the buff. You’re only naked when someone else is clothed and has the power of the gaze over you. Though it took some coaxing, eventually we were all in the buff last night. The Jamiriquai was bumping, and the pelvises were pumping. Thank you to all who were in attendance fo
r
participating. We’re two for three TK, how about making it three for four sometime?

Missed the protest this morning as I had a job interview. Missed the benifit as I was not aware of it's happening. Decided it would only be appropriate to donate the $20 I made from the sale of the busted nativity scene to Steve's defense fund.




Plenty of insane shit went down at my apartment from Sunday to Monday, and while I will look back fondly on most of the on-goings, some others have left me with a not so sweet taste in my mouth. I'll need a good day of work to come to some semblance of what exactly took place. I’m referring not only of Sunday in and of itself in which I reverted to a beast like creature, but more so of Monday for which certain unknown people from the party the night before retuned only to rob my friend's wallet, my housemates' electric razors, and all of our unopened bars of soap. As I’ll be working every day for the next two weeks, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to sort everything out. Sorry to miss your BBQ Soyeon and Robin. Oh, and sorry to hound you Robin to come over on Sunday. While my apartment was bursting at the seams with people and I was having a ridiculous time, it would have been nice to have a handful of people there that I actually knew. People off the street are fun, but I prefer to have some people around I can trust to leave alone with my toiletries.

Sweet Jesus, I rock too hard for my own good. We had a robot, the touring guitarist from green jello, john steven's from amreican idol, numerous underrated local musicains, a bunch of tag a longs, and flacidness hanging out on the roof... the rock continues well past sundown. I sold my first piece of "art" today... it was a nativity scene with the head of Mary bashed in and the baby jesus protroding from the opening... it was entitled " Budding Jesus from asexual Mary." Some woman from the street gave me $20, we were upset to see it leave as the sea of suburban infidels roaming around outside were visibly upset by the display... well we're moving in two weeks and it would have been thrown out anyways... I'm catching shit for being antisocail and hanging out in front of the computer, so should anyone read this in the immediate future and wish to rock, head on over to 500 Franklin

I will be entertaining visitors tomorrow on the roof over looking the "music is art"? festival tomorrow, 500 Franklin St. Should you be in the area, do please come upstairs. "Budding Jesus from asexual Mary" will be on display until sundown.

At my current pay rate, without subtracting anything for taxes, housing, alcohol or taking into consideration interest, I would have to work 1,318 hours to pay off my student loans. What sucks the most about this is I didn't use even a portion of my loans to pay for tuition, housing, or fees. No, besides a computer and some video equipment I have nothing to show for my three year $15,000 bender. I suppose I also have a bigger belly and some stupid pictures of me looking like I'm enjoying myself, but my appreciation of such has worn thin. I've been working a lot lately, 12 hours today and another 12 tomorrow. As lame as it sounds, I can't really think of anything I'd rather be doing at the moment. If I'm working I'm not drinking, and if I'm not drinking I'm not spending money, and if I'm not spending money well I'm most likely not drinking which means I can think somewhat clearly. My job is fantastic for thinking. Nobody seems to give a shit if I don't say much, stare blankly most of the time, periodically erupt into laughter, and occasionally scribble something down on my notepad. Sometimes I even get fed. The only drawback I've noticed so far is I leave work with all these damn show tunes bouncing around my skull.

Together, together, you and I. You're my special little guy.

It's not where you start, it's where you finish, and you're going to finish on top.
Jesus. One more day of this production then I get some time off to hopefully finalize an apartment for July 1st. Should anyone know of a moderately nice 3 bedroom available for that time, please let me know. The last thing I need is to wind up with a piece of shit landlord by the likes of Pete Singer.

I really wanted to give you a tip. I always tip. I often tip too well. I tip when the service is horrendous and the person I'm tipping routinely kicks me out of the bar for no reason. I could not tip you however as you didn't have change to break a twenty and there was no place on the credit card receipt for me to write one in. It was on the corner of Tonawanda and Niagara. My minivan's belt flew off after barreling through a puddle on the 198 on my way to graduation. You found it odd that graduation was held before the final day to submit work. I agreed. You said you were still working on a paper and it was due next week. I said good luck. When it became apparent that I could not give you a tip, you told me not to worry about it and to tip the next guy. I asked your name as I left. You said Brain. I planned on mailing a tip the next week addressed to you at your employer, but like most of my good intentions, I failed to follow through. If this was indeed you Stickboy, than I do believe I owe you a drink or two.