My friend Sara is here from San Diego with her 4 year old. It is just about his first exerience with snow. Yesterday we went sledding at Chestnut Ridge. It was Thursday so there weren't too many people. It was great fun, I was somehow so enthused that I actually ran up the hill, crazy. Today we are going to Olean to build snowmen and whatever else you do with a 4 year old in the snow. It should be fun. Then we come back for catfish. Yummy!

Whether I am going to start reading again. I can't decide. It's kind of defeatist because I want to do something. Of my own creation instead of absorbing the work of others. I keep feeling smarter, or more creative, or developed in a particular manner. It needs some release. Something to make it more than a tiny portion of me trapped forever in my mind. When I make thoughts appear in other media they become more real to me, more substantial and believable. I can't retain every detail of my own thoughts; I need to make the specifics have a life of their own without my capacital boundaries. So probably anyways I will start to read something otherworldy. I am so lazy. Schade.

I am very tired of getting movies just because hot stars are in them and then they don't even do me the favor of getting naked. Seriously. The last two movies (discounting that horrible BBC thing) that I watched were The Bourne Identity and Igby goes down. Both featured rather talentless actors, Matt Damon and Ryan Philippe, who would have made their presence on my televsion like a million times better if they just would've showed a little ass. C'mon, who's pretending that they like these hacks for anything besides their studly hotness? Everytime fucking Philippe got on the screen I started yelling "shut up and get naked for Christ's sake"!!! At least in that other stupid movie about rich people and drugs he showed his cute ass. It is a shame that the Culkin brother in the film actually showed him up in Igby. I can't believe I am writing about movies. What has my life come to? Where am I? For flyin' fuck's sake, I mean it. I am trying not to let my current bout of semi-depression affect my journal too much, but it tends to seep in anyway. At least my father hasn't come out to me as a closet born again christian like poor Trisha's has. I feel for you baby. I hope I am allowed to say that in the journal. You're probably not reading though, so... Going now. Whatch a movie and feel sad for me please.

This one's close to home for me since I'm from Las Vegas, but should get everyone's hackles up. Here's the story from the LV local the Review Journal .

The FBI was granted special investigative powers in Las Vegas following the elevated "orange" terrorist alert level around the holidays. It is estimated that as many as 300,000 people had their personal information handed over to authorities, including names, addresses, phone #s, credit card information, etc. The information was gathered from hotels, casinos, and the airport. A disturbing point is that no effort was made to deaggregate the information, which means that all info was handed over whether required or not, no time was taken to make sure only info requested in the individual requests was submitted (they basically gave everything they had on every guest). The FBI also has the power to make follow-up requests for individual guests and to start investigations with any part of the data mined. Ironically this flies fat in the face of Las Vegas' new slogan, `What you do here stays here' Maybe it should be amended, `What you do here stays here, unless the FBI says differently.'

This morning I awoke to a mysterious sound, the result of which eminated from below my peripheral undersight. The rythym varied but the pulse was never satisfied. A bit of both pleasure and elastic, manueverings allowing perfect moment to ensue. The story at this point must undergo a wendung (d.). An underlying cause must be found. Language must not be used frivolously, to the benefit of only one, who's typing. Vietnafood is good especially twice. The third time in reverse makes much less sense though it titilates aural nerves. Isn't it ironic, don't you think, a little too ironic, and yeah i really do think. But it somehow manages to figur. Life, such a funny place. Helping you out. I feel that way when I go to Olean. Sometimes. I love to attach some- to my words. It is satisfying, for vanilla white bread. Or Swede. We feel it, really, on the inside. You couldn't tell on the outside. I wish you could more. I wish I could.