I just saw yet another movie (The Day After Tomorrow) which has triggered a paranoia that I am not doing anything to directly save human-(not merely 'man' as I was corrected by my friend)-kind.

On a side note, my dog (I first spelled god which is a strange coincidence) is in fact getting smarter, more bored, and more destructive as the days progress.

dog, god, it's all rhetoric.

As for the movie: it is cookie cutter but I crave cookies every so often. You can, if so desired, dive into the topics the movie brings up, or you can simply leave the theater and bring up the fact that all the coincidences in the movie were entirely predictable. Why is there always the best friend who has to sacrifice himself? Give me a Charlie Kaufmann flick any day. Incidentally Jake Gyllenhall (sp?) plays the same character as he did in Donnie Darko, so that's a plus. Very under-rated actor I have to say.

Boredom. Boredom is my bane. It is the reason for all my troubles and all my inadequacies in life, besides of course my inability to say no when a person sits down and asks the infamous, well I didn't expect to see you here, can I join you? (certain instances excluded)That's guilt, but of course we'll get into that anon.

I can guarantee this: if you are at least somewhat interesting, or at the very least attractive, and you start something only to not finish it or better yet, to have it end on your terms, you will be the most desirable thing in my life at that given moment, hands down. Why? Because you have alleviated me from boredom and despite what happens, I thank you for it.

Boredom is what makes me sit at the bar and write useless words that I will never be able to read the next day on a tiny notepad. 1) I'm bored at home so I go out hoping that I will have that life changing incident happen at the Pink, we've all been there. 2) I go alone, so I talk to the people I know, who usually hang out in my head or my pen (this is not deep, just honest) 3) When I do talk to someone I barely know, and please fellow estrippers, you do know that I'm not regarding you all (I'd love to talk to you, although the situation has not made itself quite plain as of late) eh-hem, when I do talk to someone I barely know, I detest forcing a conversation and would rather swivel back around on my stool and give Mona a wink and a nod.

Moe: Nother Jameson?

Brian: I love you.

Yet it is the guilt that makes me embrace this boredom. Why don't I walk away from this known boredom? Because I'd rather not be an asshole. Instead I look like a dick who's not having fun when really, I'm just bored out of my mind talking to you.

Every day I get home from work or physics, my dog has destroyed something - a roll of toilet paper, the pillow, buttons on my shirt, the wall. I asked him why and he said, I'm paraphrasing: "Well shit, you're gone all day towing people and I get to, well let's see, I can chew on a bone that has no meat on it, play ball with myself which is good for about a minute of pure bliss, I can bury a bone, or, oh yes, I could sleep. Eight hours, and the most exciting thing I can think of doing, after just waking up, asshole, is to sleep. Let's now ponder why I destroy things hmm. oh and while at it, what the heck is this Hamlet chap confused about?"

I'm not looking for excitement, but I am looking for an amazing cup of coffee. A decent conversation over a cup of coffee that does not leave me asking, have I told you this already, or in essence, not bored. I get mussed up in the head when I'm bored, which has lead to my obsession with existentialism. So, what is the answer? A cup of coffee, a new perspective, and Camus. Let's bring up Camus, instead of letting me fall back into it like I do every night.

It's all so tiresome and I'm bored of it.

The very essence of romance is uncertainty

-Oscar Wilde

Passion dies when you know for a fact they won't leave

-BT

Shameless self promotion, take one:

Well I'm writing to tell you of an event happening this weekend. A one-act play I wrote is being produced at the Georgia room on South Transit Rd, at the Jimmy B's Entertainment Complex. The play is entitled, Untitled (and yes it is intentional). The play is a bit on the absurd side, but then, what isn't. Anyway, the information is below. If you have any questions, I'll try to answer, but really, what you see below is what I know.

So hopefully I'll see you there. This is my world debut with real actors reading my play. I'm psyched but well, there's a sickness involved too. Come see me pace back and forth wearing out the carpet in the back of the theater. It'll be a good time.

There is a bit more information in Artvoice about it, but here's the gist.

ONE-ACT PLAY FESTIVAL. 7:30 p.m. next Friday and May 15; 4 p.m. May 16. New plays and dramatic readings by regional playwrights presented by Actors Anonymous Theatre Company. Georgia Room Theatre at Jimmy B.'s, 6856 S. Transit Road,
Lockport. Call to reserve a seat if ya feel like it, 633-4355. $8.50.

Thanks y'all, I hope to see you there.

-brian

accuracy - on the level of something else, as in to say that I was an idiot for leaving a plastic cutting board on the stove whilst turning the burner it was laying upon, on (read below), is accurate. It is not precise. To be accurate is to get in the realm of what's expected, because really people don't expect that much, especially when it comes to flaming cutting boards.

precise - numbers. It's all about numbers, position and mathematics, within reason. It is the obtaining of what you expect, but it must be exact. Like that cutting board was precisely in the wrong place when I turned on that burner because I was accurately an idiot. Although I didn't expect it, it's precisely what would have happened, and did happen because again, to say I was an idiot is accurate.

Or I may be wrong.

That's accurate.

Just so you all know, when you refresh the page, while having a dissertation's amount of words in your box, because you walk away because of course you just set fire to, and had to figure out a way to stop the blazinging inferno on your cutting board that you left on the burner, the wrong burner that you didn't mean to turn on, when all you really just wanted to do was to make some hot chocolate because you ran out of fucking coffee and you don't feel like tea because you're not sick and you see teas and sickness as analogous, you lose that entire page, never to get it back. Just so's you all know.

The answer for everything I have have found, especially dealing with a huge cutting board that looks like a torch in a Medievil movie, is to stick into the toilet.

I don't care what anyone says, The Cat in the Hat was a funny movie. I wonder if there was a book prior too. It's looks very Dr. Seuss.

So yeah, if anyone's interested apparently there will be a few of us at the pink tonight. Paul, perhaps a note on the front page would work because chances are some people won't read this . . . hey, I'm just being realistic. Hell I don't even read my own journal.

Okay, back to the Moobers of Shooberville. This is what I do by the way.

The Moobers of Shooberville
Have so much to say and play
Which is why they want to visit
And maybe even stay
They won't sit still for long
Cause they love to jump around
They do this in sweet sneakers
And they do this all o'er the ground
Shooberville is all fun and games
And the Moobers will rock your town
So make them feel at home
Cause for your town, the Moobers are bound

15 pages. 15 FULL pages of nonstop interesting shit. And through it all I fell in love with Kierkegaard. Who knew it was possible . . .

So that's that. Sort of. Well at least for this semester. Still gotta finish writing a book, but hey that's neither here nor there.

So it's amazing out and I don't want to clean my apartment, so's I wont. This is what the nightime is for . . . that and thinking of crazy odd characters for a Fisher-Price line of toys (hypocritical? perhaps. But working at home, or in a coffee shop, by yourself, thinking of why Bobble Moober likes to be thrown in the air is undeniably a good time. Especially with the pay. Oh yeah. I love Fisher-Price when I'm not working there.)

So I'm going to be wandering around elmwood now. Then I will get on my bike (motor) and ride all over Western New York and Canada, listening to U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," wishing there were no helmet laws.

But yet, what do we have here? Leonard Cohen on WFUV in New York (via internet) singing, "Who by Fire." Oh I wish my door led to 14th street. Union Square is calling my name right now. I know it.

Or I may just sit outside and convice my dog to stay still and read a goddamn good book for once. He's missing out on so much.

It's always Clifford, Clifford, why can't I be red, why can't I be big . . .

One goddamn page left and I'm fucking spent. This is the last paper and then I'm free (for about two weeks when I have to take physics for some stupid fucking state requirement bullshit).

Actually not even one page, I just need about 3/4's. The prof said 15-20 and I have 14 and 1/4. How's that for shitness. Fuck me. I made my point tenfold, but I have to . . . ah fuck it. I'm gonna go eat an artichoke.

That just pisses me off though. If I finish the paper, I can do things again. I can do laundry. I can do dishes. I can masturbate. I don't even have time for that now. What the fuck is going on here . . .

Shit stains on the silk sheets of life is what it is.

Anyone want to send me 3/4's of a page about Flannery O'Connor's Misfit character's reasons for shooting the grandmother in "A Good Man Is Hard to Find?"

Talk about the need for faith and grace . . .

ah go figure . . . y'all play my favorite game and I'm not there.

Tell me there will be a rematch. My bods not exactly well, it's all marked up and shit, so I suppose I need to attempt to really know how to play. Of course there is the strategy of losing on purpose which I know a lot of you peeps play with.

Oh look at that innuendo . . . in't that special.