So I've had these hives for over a week now, and am getting really annoyed. The symptoms are that I get itchy somewhere and if I scratch at all I get hives in the shape of the scratches, if I don't itch, nothing. I am somewhat prone to hives, if a cat or dog bites/scratches me or if I roll around in grass for an extended period I get hives, but his seemed a little extreme. So, I decide to look it u[ on the internet and find that my "condition" has a name: dermatographism. It sounds like tis could get annoying. They say that it can last for a week or two or for the rest of your life. Fun. There is no known cure unless the source of the irritation can be identified (which is usually very difficult) and histamine-blockers have a mild chance of preventing outbreaks if taken everyday. I guess I have to pray I have the week or two variety. They don't really have long term consequences or anything they are just annoying as fuck. Like I'm at work and scratch my face beofre I can stop myself and have an ugly red mark for an hour, I feel like a leper.

Anyways, the disturbing coincidence happened when I was looking up the disease and there was a picture of what it looked like:



Fucking bizzare right! Freaked me the hell out. Anyways, feel sorry for the leper and now when you see me with disgusting red blotches all over you know I don't have scabies or AIDS or something.

thoug my head wonders if it should be thanking you for the pounding it's experiencing now. :) Went to Presba, a bar I had heretofore not even heard of, which was cool and played extrememly cool music (we walked in and were greeted with Joga by Bjork). The pizza was yummy yummy yummy. The band at the Square was pretty neat rock and rolly, I didn't really get to see them, as is usually the case. Camping is today. I am very excited. I love to camp. First time in the new summer it has to be wonderful.

First-off, I don't know the guy at all. He is probably really swell and making some neat science-art. But, I have to say that I am not sure that just anyone should be able to play with strange bacterias (are claims of Anthrax true?). However well meaning the person is, they are not all benign substance; I wouldn't want my neighbor making art with explosives next door either. So, while I feel for him that he is going through some horribly scary shit, I can't say that he shouldn't have expected it. Of course, the scale of what happened is ridiculous. Cordoning an entire neighborhood off and carting away his dead wife's body was probably not necessary (though as Paul says, in some cases of public safety it is probably better that the Buffalo police not handle it and specialized teams be brought in). I also am pretty sure that he won't get anything like a fair trial and that he is probably suffering more than is necessary because of our draconian new terror laws, and that sucks.

The New York Times is often described as being our nation's paper of record, meaning that it is trusted above all others to deliver the news of the day. They have recently suffered many blows, the most covered being the Jason Blair "scandal". The truth is that Jason Blair was the least of their problems. In a self-accusatory article (you need a membership), the Times has tried to come-clean over it's coverage of the Iraqi WMDs. Since the prewar attempts of the Administration to build the case for war they have been on the bandwagon, parroting lines and calling on official sources as often as possible. One of their top correspondents, Judith Miller (Democracy Now! has been talking about her for months and months now), was at the forefront, delivering "news" about the developing story. One of her most frequent sources was Ahmad Chalabi the now scandal-ridden friend of Bushco who has apparently taken everybody for a ride. The question now is whether this will incite some real change. Was the admission of guilt a lame excuse to soothe ruffled feathers or is it the precursor to a new-era of truth-telling? We shall see, though as usual I have little optimism.

I am being deliciously devoured by the tongue of Hermann Hesse. He makes me ache. I truly hear the surly call of waves splashing their foamy essence upon kelp-encrusted rocks. I fly with the gaze of a young man finding his soul in opal-green glaciers. The boom of reverberating waterfalls cleanses my soul of worldly tedium.

I used to sit in the park for hours and read this one short story (novelle to be exact) over and over. It was called Iris. Everyone should read it, though I can't guarantee that the English translation delivers its true beauty. It's the only story that I've read out loud to myself. He writes so beautifully that I need to hear each word roll off my tongue to savor its meaning and relation to the text. The first whole part is solely composed of a boy experiencing the delights of his mother's garden. As the name implies, he is particularly obsessed with the iris. He stares into the depths of its goblet and imagines himself transported into a fairy realm, walking between the rows of golden stamen to reach the farthest reaches, where unspeakable glory is enthroned. It's a moral of growing up, of learning the lessons of childhood, forgetting them while gaining adult experience, and realizing that what was lost is the only thing worth living for. Just thinking about it takes me to such a special happy place... ahhhh. Bliss, true bliss.