Hell, I’m always on the lookout for some good new music. Unfortunately my search often results in less than good new music. There are far too many bands out there with delusions of grandeur, weird gimmicks, and stranger sounds, all of which don’t particularly agree with my constitution.

Thankfully, The Decemberists album Castaways and Cut-outs does not fit this bill.
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Yessiree, you heard it here first. I truly am teething. Or, perhaps, toothing, to be more precise. A [singular] wisdom tooth has deemed its time ripe to emerge from the evolutionary boondocks that forms the backplates of the mandible. My wisdom tooth, instead of being a mere nuisance, and a reason for people to look like jaundiced chipmunks upon removal, serves a purpose.

I’m pretty sure that sentence has way too many clauses.
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The past few days have been spent in a flurry of sundry computer cleaning procedures. We’ve ghosted the summer image onto the business clusters, we’ve scraped the hand salsa off of innumerable keyboards and mice, we’ve shined monitors and razed the cluster kiosks of any and all unnecessary paraphernalia.

On the personal side, I reformatted my PC at home and installed XP in order to squeeze another year of use out of its aging circuits. I didn’t have any problems at all running Win200Pro but XP takes up a bit less space without the unneccessary NTserver scripts.

Signing up for hours looks like it is going to be a chore this summer, we are a bit overstaffed, so I’m going to have to scrounge to get the full 40 I am alotted.

I managed to copy everything over to my friend’s machine so I saved all of my mp3s, papers, etc. Everything except my contact list/address book with all of my email addresses, and all of the saved emails that I have. d’oh!

If you are reading this, know who I am, and would like to be reinstated into my new contact list please email me with all of your pertinent contact information [email, phone, etc.].

If you are reading this, don’t know me personally, but would still like to be put into my address book, please do the same.

The second entry, and then I must needs say no more about matrices till November.

As a film, The Matrix [original] was authentic in its rawness of mise-en-scene, tight plot, character construction and philosophy. The Matrix: Reloaded, has the mangy paw of Hollywood overproduction and overengineering all over it.
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I’ve seen The Matrix: Reloaded twice now. Fittingly I will give it two entries, one on philosophy and one on its cinematic qualities. This is the philo one. Most likely they will both contain spoilers.

To start out, those who say that this second film lacks [in substance and thought provoking material] are idiots.
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The Summer Reading List currently contains:

1. High Fidelity - Nick Hornby
2. Ulysses - James Joyce
3. The Hawkline Monster - Richard Brautigan
4. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
5. His Dark Materials Trilogy - Philip Pullman
6. Gravity’s Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon
7. The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen
8. Something by Kafka

I’m always taking suggestions as well, especially poetry.

Tomorrow I get my St. Joe County Library Card.

I had lunch with her today. She had been gone to Spain all last semester, and had just gotten back the previous week. She came up to South Bend to get her job at the Center for the Homeless settled, and to run a few other errands. She cut her hair.
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I’ve not written any poetry in quite some time. I did manage to get an A in my Advanced Poetry Writing class, but I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Over the semester I felt myself becoming less and less fresh and creative, instead the poems became steadily more like mass-produced objects with assignment completion as the goal rather than quality.
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Senior Year was by far my best year of college. My grades were superb, I had a room all to myself, the football team under the new tutelage of Tyrone Willingham, was 10-2, and to crown it all off, the fencing team won the national championship, and I get a ring out of it!
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I was going to write my senior year reflection tonight, but I feel like I’ve been shat out by howler monkeys, eaten by them once again, regugitated, and then flung against a cold slimy window.

I’m going to go nest under a massive pile of blankets now and sweat this fever away. It is, after all, my only symptom.

I had this dream the other night, where I was in this goth club just minding my own business listening to some kickass darkwave, when some dude started something.
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I’ve been burning up Interpol in my CD player lately. Theirs is a musical experience that I have never had the pleasure of listening to before. Turn On The Bright Lights is a very taut album. It goes through a series of anxious peaks and introspective valleys but remains rife with a feeling akin to what post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) must cause. TotBL begins with ‘Untitled,’ a song that effectively brought me into Interpol’s unique virtual sonic world and set the tension for the rest of the album.
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Here I am, back again and fancier than ever. I’ve finally inched toward a higher echelon of blogging authenticity by hopping on the MT bandwagon. Now that I have redesigned and have nifty auto-archiving et al. there is really only one thing about this site that bothers me. You might be able to help…
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