Playing with Camera Lighting

Nice beer gut, Mr. Henner

A Small SigEp Tribute to the Pope

Hazy

From the sidekick at 4:04pm, 05-04-05. Some sick boy dared me to write
with a post modernist bend. Not quite my style, but ill give it a wing.
Won't be entirely post modern. I can't think like that well yet. Too
busy, like ovid, thinking in strands of prose.

Sitting on my frat porch. Its hard under me. Can feel it under my feet,
and through the folds od my jeans. Some cop car slows down to watch a
brother throw a footbal to some girl. No ass. Tiny curve of hips. Nice
skin tone. I think ill add it to my coffee and call it french vanilla
hazelnut whatever. She catches the football as well as I. I eat my
butterfingers and wonder how hers would taste. They flirt and he holds
the football aloft. Foreplay on the grassy knoll. Who is the second
shooter aiming for sloppy seconds.

A line of cars pause to watch. Someone fiddles with his zipper but rolls
on as they resume ball play of sorts. A fat man strools by carrying his
stomach with his beard. He waves at me and the folds flabber
amibiguously. I wave from the hardness under my ass. Feel a little
water. Rains coming.

I look down for wet spots. Not unlike that on the matress after a nice
bout. Who sleeps on it. Who walks on it. I'm ready to run home but a
trio walks by. Bright green spring dress over tight. Nice says the
following sable.

Extreme porch sitting isn't for the weak. Gotta endure long bouts of
ennui. Lucky I sit on route 66. Mother road looks a bit country. Take a
sip from the drink. Cherry vanilla dr. Pepper. No vanilla. All cherry in
the burp. Brother comes by. Makes thumb motions. Writing emails man. Its
nice out. But the rain comes. Till the rain comes. That one of them
tmobiles. The same. Like a text phone. Shit I can talk in it. Must be
like a thousand. Naw under a hundred. Really? Gotta know where to look.
You know where to look I don't. Its on the internet.

Pink chalk rolls by in the wind. A green vw van sombers out of the 50s.
I page my mother. Tell the geezer to take it easy. Nice brother. I mean
it with heart, but not too much old people hearts are wont to go bad.
Don't joke about that. Sorry mom. Taxes. I packed today five boxes of
books my life in text. Ill send the labels.

Bright pink and green in dualism walks by. The old man waits for when
his mind avoids women. The young man knows that's when death is
imminent. She says asexuals are asexy. I say asexuals are a form of
simple life. This requires another drink of the cherry non vanilla.

The sun ducks behind black clouds. A bird struggles against the wind of
graffiti unc sucks. Last nights dissapointment did not merit riot
fuckings. Went bowling instead and pinned low numbers. The dude did not
abide. Red cars are sexy. Two wheels are sexier.

Do not enter the sign says, so I took it down and worked it over.

And now my thumbs hurt. The cop stares at me, wondering if I'm drinking
rum. If only.

----------------------

That was funky

~ I write with your life and my own ~

Jungle Juice Aint No Jungle Lovin'

The past week felt like I was putting my nuts through the wringer. Each day and each hour at the computer left a definite impression in my body. I feel particularly blah, and at one point was so bored with my life that I contemplated an old dream to flee to Hawaii and become a pineapple farmer. Work progresses ad museum on my senior thesis. At last check, I was twenty-two pages in and the end is nowhere in sight. Luckily, I've done enough work that I'm a bit ahead of schedule, but there's much more to finish. This is in addition to all the other papers that need to be done. I hear them calling my name from a stack on my computer case. They whisper obscenities in the night and I have woken up in an aghast daze, with my blanket covering my mouth, chittering to myself that the papers will eat me. Their shadow looms quite ungracefully over my paranoid figure and I have no doubt that they review torturous fantasizes that involve unspeakable acts of mental rape.

Such has been my life for the last few weeks. I dig out paper after paper, and when the weekend comes I exhale long sighs of relief. Thursday evenings now feel better to me than post-coital bliss. Such is the temptation to light up and stretch out after my last Thursday class. I think people find it odd when they see me breathe quickly when the teacher dismisses, and let out plaintatives such as, "Oh yeah. I like it when you finish like that." I have yet to figure out how not to ruin my pants after a particularly good bout...

You can probably figure out that I have increased my drinking intake in order to compensate for the rudeness of my weeks. This has led to some interesting results. Friday morning, I woke up quite hung over, with scrawled numbers all over my sidekick. I immediately went through the numbers and was able to purloin the fact that I some how managed to pick up several different girls. How I did that in my inebriated state remains a mystery, although I have no doubt that booze some how morphs me into some kind of Jewish Don Juan, or at least it does in my imagination. I remain without physical evidence of my evening exploits. This must be a good thing because I have yet to wake up with strange bodies in my bed, and it has been quite some time since I woke up in some stranger's bed. I do recall, however, thinking that I had met my soul mate at the local Pike (Pi Kappa Alpha) house.

The girl had no real redeeming qualities other than the fact that she enjoyed my body and that she called herself weird. I told her that I loved weird girls, and that sometimes weirdness was erotic and quite the turn on. We continued this conversation for a bit, until people left us from disgust and/or envy. Her roommate eventually pulled her disposed form off me. I went home, stumbling and screaming to no one in particular the aesthetic philosophy of Langer. I do believe if an officer had stopped me, I would have given him or her a lecture on the compelling points of expressive symbolism. See, this is what my thesis has done to me. It has turned me into a fount of shit, not like I needed any help in this respect. Once home, I composed some very bad Brautigan-esque love poetry to her beautiful mind and told friend that I didn't really want to fuck the girl, but I did want to make love to her mind. Ah, the drunken Jon contemplates skull fucking, or at least a really good mind-lay.

No, I don't have the poetry. And, even if I had them, I wouldn't let you read 'em.

Last night, after complaining to Rosencratz about how I felt disenfranchised from social norms, I decided to go on a serious bender and then attempt to write while drunk. That was the plan, at least, and it was going well until I found a cachet of vodka (a gallon's worth) and drank most of it. Instead of writing, I found myself sitting a room of brothers, staring at the wall and thinking about nothing.

Vodka. Bad. Not writing. Bad.


I just got asked to go on a road trip, so I’m cutting this entry short. It’s calling, you know.