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.

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.

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

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.