In praise of Byron, the Immortal Lightbulb.

My updates have been rather sporadic, now haven't they. Well, I finished Gravity's Rainbow, which was good but not great. Rockets, ghosts, schematics, and all that rot. The poor protagonist was dissassembled, and the audience was bombed.

yes I agree, rot, though the word itself has become more enthusiastic in my mind over time, culminating in the most recent development, the spastic cry "Let's Rot!", not original, well, nothing's original They say, but at least this is most definitely NON-orginal, one of the preterite stolen phrases of this and every lost dimension.

Recent events have been interesting and, for once, different. I got a job at Giovanni's, delivering pizzas, which is worth it for the spectacle of the Deathtrap delivery alone. A van, delivering pizzas. I am a pioneer, an American Hero, a Rocketman (albeit without Major Tom, also lifted for that song from that book), breaking the car-er barrier, and, apparently, working alongside Graham's friend Jon and others.

My dad, incidently, discovered this site; he was prying into the archives when I went home. This is holy ground, an intellectual(?) sanctum (though I have no illusions about the fictionalizing and self-propagandizing latent in blogging) and I will not have it sullied. If you found this site thanks to that lovely link that ICQ2002 put at the bottom of all my parent's emails, please go away now and never visit again. I like invisible eyes, but not this variety.

Needless to say, I told the Content Advisor that this page was hardcore porn or something, and that no one on my parent's computer should be allowed to access it, thus protecting my privacy. It's wickedly ironic, using Content Advisor that way.

Only six glasses of water today.

Speaking of which, I saw The Royal Tennenbaums (no attempt was made to spell the title correctly, reflecting my inability to pronounce said title) last night at Graham's. It was pretty good, a bit heavy on the visual storytelling but the whole thing works anyways. Tonight I watched Men in Black II with Dylan and ate dinner with both Dylan and Jenna, at Burger King.

The whole flesh-vs-spirit story is exactly what I need to think about right now.

That and toning down the tone around here. I can only guffaw at my own enlightened nature for so long, after all, the tongue can only go so far in the cheek before even I choke. Oh, and I was trying to copy Pynchon up there, but I didn't pull it off too well -some parts look a bit more like Eggers, who gets on my nerves, so I understand if the whole exercise was a bit tedious.

And I know that last sentence was pretentious, but it's putting my writing down, and not even in the pity-garnering way; I'm quite serious about that Eggers thing and it bugs me, so the self-depreciation and the pretention balance each other out more-or-less.

Frieda (Graham's mom) is breaking the ice for the road-trip tomorrow when she sees my dad, who of course has heard nothing about it. I picture an opera, with Frieda, my dad, and myself, for some reason.

And now I'll shut up, say I'm going to bed, and go play Warcraft III for about three hours. The curse of an addictive personality.

As B/4.