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.