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(Via Wockerjabby)

Nine things about me that are true and one that isn't:
1. I've been run over by a car with no driver.
2. I still have two baby teeth.
3. I acquired a Romanian Communist uniform on a trip to Transylvania.
4. I alphabetize my CDs.
5. I played Wipe Out on bass guitar in my eighth grade talent show.
6. John Gotti sent me a two-page handwritten letter in response to a letter I'd written him.
7. I've never had a cavity.
8. I once had a pet tarantula.
9. Five of my close relatives are preachers.
10. I've never shoplifted.

Any guesses as to what's false? See the answer(s).

What should be done with the unwanted garbage that hides in piles all over my room? I attacked that question last night, throwing most of it away, hiding some of it in a folder I will probably never open again (just turn my head and stuff things in), sneaking some of it in Martin's room when he was in the shower (just in case he'd like an old, complimentary calendar, a Delia's postcard, and a stiff lacey heart left over from a wedding). ah! He must have, because I didn't get them back. Today I recycled a lot of it with the company's waste, and, just now, I sneaked down to another floor in my office and deposited some heart-warming bookmarks in someone's box. I didn't just choose someone at random; I targeted someone who regularly sends out e-mails with the same brand of sentiment, so I think it's really OK, what I've done.

I've always had trouble throwing things away, but I think it's getting easier as I lose my sentimentality. When I was younger I was attached to anything that I considered mine, regardless of how I acquired it. I once found one of those transparent squares with a letter on it, the kind that gas stations and churches use to announce sale items and Jesus on illuminated message boards. I found the letter M partially buried in the dirt, which, when turned upside-down, almost looked like a W, which is the first letter of my last name. I never knew what to do with it, but I still have it, and I know exactly where it is. I also have rusty, broken, matchless earrings, old empty bottles of lotion, dead flowers and deflated mylar balloons, creatively-folded gradeschool notes, ticket stubs, dried-up ink pads, scrap pieces of fabric... At this point I wouldn't mind getting rid of most of it, but now it's become an issue of work. So at the moment my tolerant parents are the keepers of 18 years of sporadic acquisition. My unsuspecting coworker has gotten off easy.

Both yesterday and today (for work) I heard English turned into Spanish, Spanish transformed back into English; with each person it was a little different, I could tell, though I don't really know much Spanish. I was recording interpreters, following along, pressing pause, reading instructions, pouring water, exchanging CDs. Each person who entered the room had different breeds of uneasiness; some made conversation with me while others practiced efficiency. I'm back in Raleigh now, where the humidity is tangible.

Does anybody know anybody who's interested in going to Flashforward? Registration fees drop with quantity, and I am all alone.

My hair is still wet from half-jogging in the rain in some part of Chicago. Though I ususally rely quite a bit on maps, for some reason on this trip I've remained rather uninformed, something that usually bothers me but for the past two days I've accepted, letting a destination and a cab driver do the navigating for me. I've just left two new friends in exchange for work-driven sleep. I've been to this city once before, and I like it, but neither time has it fallen into the picture I'd drawn before I ever came. Somehow that makes me feel like I've never been.

Yesterday, though it feels like weeks ago, I missed my flight and I got delayed and delayed and I challenged airport entertainment. On the plane, a passenger had a heart attack. Once in Chicago, I rode a shuttle with a girl from Buies Creek, whom I hadn't seen in years. Later, I was taken to a bar called the Lakeview Lounge, where a certain band plays every Thursday through Sunday, and has done so for seventeen years straight. It was believable, once you saw the band. The backdrop was dominated by gold tinsel, shiny paper cut in fringes, with a miniature disco ball overhead. The lead singer, as Jeff put it, resembled "a burnt-out David Crosby," and the drummer reminded me of a present-day Robert DeNiro. The guitarist had wiry gray hair, and all of them had sort of a 70s hipness to them. The three played Elvis-Patsy Cline-Jimmy Hendrix covers until 4 a.m., not that I was there to see the end.

Last night I ate my fear and went on live TV as part of a talk-show panel on my friend Todd's cable access show, Monkeytime. The show raises local awareness on a variety of issues and incorporates a wide range of guests, including politicians, musicians, artists, professors, call-ins, and, sometimes, random people like me. Anyway, the hour went by in a paced blur; I had little idea of how the show had gone before I watched a tape of it. The girl on the tape who was supposed to be me bared such little resemblance to me (though I've been told otherwise) that it wasn't too hard to watch. It's a strange thing to see yourself on camera.

...

This week there's a really good article in the Independent about Jesse Helms' unwavering support of Chile's former dictator, Augusto Pinochet.

...

Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for Chicago, so that means I may be quiet again this weekend.

I've put up pictures from my latest trip, a Southwest venture with a van full of Germans. To see them (the pictures and the Germans), visit the photos page, or, go there directly.

"Two is better than one, and if your kid isn't married by the time s/he's 25, then there's something wrong. Compatibility and togetherness are more important than love; besides, love is a choice, after all."

It was good to see my odd relatives, though it made me wary of being asked any more w-questions about marriage. Waterbury is a nice town, from what I saw of it. Less sprawl than Southern towns of the same size, old houses stacked on modest hills, multiple-story buildings, bus stations and ghetto...

I read my first Adbusters on the plane ride there. I found it to be the sort of magazine that makes you think and want to share, while at the same time it gives you a sort of religious guilt, the kind that sprouts with the realization that you can never do it perfectly—you are a sinner, period. Not that the publication is particularly preachy...I suppose it's mostly overwhelming. Anyway, here's one thing I wanted to share, something that got my attention, probably because I am somewhere near stage one.

"The moment I was old enough, I headed for the city. Everything I ever wanted was here. I saw the city as a magnet for human intelligence, the center of all that mattered.

"Now, all these years later, in this same city, I feel caged—like somebody's experiment. Something about this place frightens me. I want to escape. I want to go home. And then the cold truth hits me: I am home."
from Adbusters No. 35 May/June 2001

By the way, at the wedding reception this past weekend, I heard Copa Cabana, and it was directly followed by Jimmy Buffet. What are the chances of that?

Today I'm writing from Waterbury, CT, a place I'd never considered visiting, but events like family weddings sometimes suggest new destinations. What this means is, I may not have much time to add new entries this weekend. Or maybe I'll write pages. I don't know. Right now, though, it's time to introduce my mom to Run Lola Run.

I think I need help eating. It's not that I eat too much or too little or anything like that. No, it's that I don't like much of anything. Rather than expanding, like I understood it was supposed to do with age, my personal menu is shrinking to an uninteresting pile of white—chicken, rice, pasta, potatoes, bread, cheese... I've been consistently adding avocado and tomato to just about everything, just to add a little color, but that leaves me wondering, isn't there something else? Something that won't make me feel like fast food wasteland, something that isn't too difficult to prepare, something that's actually healthy? (Not to paraphrase Huey Lewis and the News' I Want a New Drug...) Every day it's the same dilemma: what is there to eat that I didn't eat yesterday? And why don't I like more vegetables?

This site has been around for a long time, and I'm glad to see it's still online. It's called How to Toilet Train Your Cat, and it offers advice on how to do just that. I guess the presence of so many felines in my life reminded me of this tutorial, which, incidentally, I have not put to use (yet). Regardless of your pet situation, you should visit, at least to see the pictures.

A few nights ago I heard a Jimmy Buffet song while in a pool hall, and ever since I've been struggling to get it out of my head. The strange thing is, I only think of it when I am in a certain room in my house. My friend Vanya has a theory that if you start singing Copa Cabana, that you can get any song out of your head, no matter how permanent it seems. Of course then you have the problem that Barry Manilow has taken up residence. It essentially comes down to a decision of the lesser of two evils, song X or Copa Cabana. In this case, I'd choose the latter; however, to my horror, this little trick isn't working. Perhaps I should avoid that room.

There's a line from a Modest Mouse song that I like a lot: "Opinions were like kittens; I was giving them away." I've been surprised at how difficult it is to do that (give away kittens, not opinions). Of course it's too early for them to leave, both because they're still dependent and because I've become quite attached, but few people seem very interested in the prospect of owning a kitten a few weeks from now. They're all dog people, they're allergic, they don't want to pay their landlord the required fees... I'm certain if these people saw the kittens, there'd be at least a couple more takers. Wanna see?

Thanks to Spacegirl I now have another perspective on my yearly income and that of professional athletes. Find out what your salary looks like in baseball terms. Go here.

It's unusual for me to fall asleep before 1 a.m., but lately I've been taking lots of mandatory evening naps (mandatory, because it seems my body automatically powers down for a couple hours when the house gets dark). Last night during one of these naps, I was awakened at 11 by a string of German swears and the smell of electrical fire...Ingo's computer committed suicide, the second computer of his to go in a fanfare of sparks (the first happened less than a year ago). Both of us are suspicious of the wiring in our crumbling palace, boosting my appreciation of the battery in my laptop.

This morning I gulped news down like a thirsty plant. By noon I felt deflated and cynical, and I realized I'd sent way too much news-related e-mail. Even if no one read the links I passed them, it was oddly satisfying sharing my horror with people who happen to react the same way I do. While news shopping, I came across this.

How Vietnamese food has avoided me for so long, I don't know. Thanks to Eric's encouragement, I bravely ordered new things from a strange menu and have had fond thoughts of rice paper since lunch. Eric also supplied me with tips on traveling through Asia, though I have only empty guesses as to when I'll get to use them.

Three weeks ago the pregnant stray cat my roommates and I had been feeding turned itself into seven cats, right in my living room. We'd suspected what she wanted when she demanded to be let in, so we set up a box and filled it with newspapers, turned out the lights, and stared at her through bursts of a flashlight while she did her trick. For the last couple of weeks, the kittens haven't left their box on their own volition, but it's clear they're changing. By now they're quite alert and shakily move around the box with more confidence. I am anticipating the coming chaos of temporarily housing eight felines, six of whom will soon begin the investigation of my living room.

I'm assuming my landlord's not reading this.

Yesterday my car drove its 250,000th mile, and today I drove it over a concrete beam. From the noise it made, I was sure that I'd just lost the lower belly of my car, but when I got out to check, I didn't see anything I recognized as part of an Accord. Is it time to die, at 250? I don't think so. It's really tempting not to look under there.

The DoubleTake Documentary Film Festival is going on in Durham right now. Durham, the secret city, as my friend Richard calls it. I'm taking pictures for the festival, which, today at least, has been a frustrating experience, since I have time only to listen to filmmakers talk about films I'd like to see, but I don't actually get to watch any of the films. That's not the fault of the festival—part of my payment is actually a pass to all of the shows; rather, it's the fault of a full-time job, one that ironically allows me to take this assignment in the first place, thanks to its proximity to the theatre. Tomorrow I plan to get my fill of interviews and hand-held cameras.

Today I found a foreign hair in the frozen dinner I'd brought for lunch. For some reason, I'd always thought frozen dinners were immune to that sort of thing. I'd already found the meal unappealing before I found the hair.

I've finally redesigned the interior of The Centre of Transgressive Behaviors site, something I've been wanting to do for awhile. It's easier to read, and now there are flaming teeth, a flaming foot, etc. No flaming lips, though that might've been a nice idea.