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Thursday, 28 February 2002
Today (though at the time I hadn't realized it) I gave someone
her first mixed CD. She seemed quite excited about it, and when
she told me it was her first, I wanted to make her ten more. Tonight
a different friend dropped by and gave me three of her favorite
books to read (and keep). I wish the people who live below me would
stop howling and/or stop playing the bass line to Bob Marley's Exodus,
so that I could extend this positive feeling toward humans just
a little while longer.
Wednesday, 27 February 2002
Her sugar is low; do I have any orange juice? I'll make her
a glass of Tang. I picked up the plastic domed container, noticing
a discouraging absence of weight. The remaining bright orange powder
had turned itself an even darker shade of bright orange and seemed
to be permanently adhered to the plastic. I threw it in the recycle
bin with a thunk. She turned off her insulin pump and it began to
scream in sharp bursts, perfectly spaced apart. I felt ridiculously
unprepared, and I apologized. She ate some grapes and said she'd
be fine.
She's moving to Alaska on Monday, my new friend; I'm curious to
see if we stay in touch. Last night she laughed about how, when
she went to boarding school, she'd get letters from her old friends
and think, oh, cool! I got a letter, and that it didn't occur
to her that she ought to write back until, eventually, they stopped
sending her letters.
There are lots of those in my past, too—temporary friends who
filled the spaces of certain moments in my life. You exchange numbers
and addresses and make empty promises that you truly believe, and
then, either suddenly or gradually, those fillings fade into hazy
memories and far-away pictures, and that there's really no room
for them in your present-day life. There's no room for you
in their lives, either, because you, too, are a filling.
For some reason I remember once hearing Florence Henderson say that
the secret to staying in shape was not getting out of shape. If
she's right, the secret to maintaining friendships, then, should
be relatively clear.
So at the close of our simultaneous getting-to-know-you-and-goodbye
drink, I tapped on the fish tank at the end of the bar, and the
lonely big orange fish jetted over to the corner where my face met
the glass. We butted heads and stared at each other—he would
turn sideways and forwards, looking at me from all angles, and I
would try to look into his moving mouth, studying the pink flesh
of his alien little body. Later, when I came home, I fed the local rabbits
some aging carrots, and, to my surprise, they were sitting exactly
where I thought they'd be, though I haven't actually seen them for
weeks. I broke the carrots in twos and threw them in different directions
and watched for a moment before walking back home. Once there, my
cat trilled a pledge of obesity, asking me to give her more food,
and I obliged.
***
It appears my theory that I'd get three-fourths
of my name in print next time my photos ran is, in fact, wrong.
This time they left my name off altogether.
Tuesday, 26 February 2002
A brief update on a few of the more intriguing searches that
have led people to this site: country singers, good and evil, advertising
patriotism (ha!), fake i.d., and pictures of afros. Nice! I'm disappointed,
however, that my mentions of "pig pickin'," "pig
kings," or "Pappy's" haven't generated any traffic
yet.
Finally: the pictures
are up from last Friday's flight.
Monday, 25 February 2002
Yesterday I received an e-mail from the campaign coordinator
of the NC Green Party, informing me about an upcoming party at the
campaign coordinator's house, at which the campaign coordinator's
band will be playing. I forwarded the message to a friend, typing
Does this sound good to you? before clicking SEND. I hadn't
thought much about it, until today, when I got a response from the
campaign coordinator himself: You had asked if this sounds fun
to me, and since it is going to happen at my house, it does sound
like fun to me. ... Does it sound fun to you?
That's right. I had clicked REPLY rather than FORWARD, mistakenly
asking the campaign coordinator if he thought his own party sounded
any good. How embarrassing.
Sunday, 24 February 2002
As soon as we arrive, the group picks up their mats and heads
outside, arranging themselves in rows
in the brown grass underneath the bright blue sky. They sit with
their legs folded Indian-style, backs stiff, and eyes closed—concentrating—their
composure neatly countering my frantic picture taking. Their arms
and hands move in smooth curves while I intrude with my lens, squatting
at different heights and crunching as quietly as I can through the
sword-shaped leaves. Todd stands on the sidelines and (fortunately)
does the chatting for me.
Five minutes pass. Suddenly we're at the Jewish Film Festival, crashing
into another culture I am not a part of. There, we meet several
others, sit in a long row in the theater, stare forward and put
popcorn in our mouths (well, I do) and watch Promises,
a two-sided documentary about Palestinian-Israeli relations, told
from children's perspectives. The woman behind us makes her
perspective known throughout the film, scoffing and muttering "that's
not true," whenever she hears something she doesn't like. But
by the end, everyone is clapping, including the woman who'd been
grunting and hissing at the screen.
Ten minutes pass. We're eating Mexican food, discussing the film,
and I'm scraping the beans out of my taco. We stop for coffee, smudging
the glass of the dessert display with our pointing fingers, and
we walk further, running in spurts, our group separating into divergent
clusters, the way groups unfailingly do. At a used bookstore, we
flip through records and old books and I'm passing out tart candy
and by now our conversation has changed completely. People begin
to peel off, one by one, and I drive back to Raleigh.
Saturday, 23 February 2002
Left alone for a few minutes with an Alzheimer's patient:
"My husband passed away a few years ago," she said, squeezing
a slice of lemon and dropping it into her water.
"Yes, I know."
"Oh, you knew that? Well, he passed away, and now I live with
my daughter and her husband. They're so good to me; I love them
very much. They're very nice. My husband passed away, my mother
passed away, my father passed away, but one day I'll see them again."
She nodded and smiled sweetly as she spoke, and adjusted her fur-trimmed
hat.
"Did you see the sunset? Look at the sky behind you."
The bottom half of the sky was blazing pink.
"Oh, yes, that's very beautiful. You know, my husband passed
away, and now I live with my daughter in her house. She and her
husband are so good to me. They take me traveling with them wherever
they go, since I live in their house, since my husband passed away.
We travel a lot. It's very nice. I've been to North Carolina before,
you know...I think I want a lemon in my water." She slowly
picked up a lemon and held it over her water.
"You already have one in there."
"Oh yes! So I do. I didn't see that," she said, setting
it back down.
Friday, 22 February 2002
Apparently I kept a good poker face today; the pilot never knew
that I was feeling queasy, that with each lurch of the plane, my
stomach hovered in the air an extra second before dropping clumsily.
I felt fine for the first two-thirds of the flight, until we began
to circle above the paper plant. I was watching much of the scenery
pass by with my right eye pressed up to the viewfinder of my camera,
predominately through my 300 millimeter lens, which magnified the
earth, but also rearranged my sense of perception. When combined
with the smell of the paper plant (which I originally thought was
a sewage plant), my head started to swim. I was a little surprised
and disappointed, as I had hoped I was more hard-core than that.
Earlier, Martin and I had driven two hours east, through flat lands
and past tobacco fields, clusters of trailers and double-wides,
little brick churches that made liberal use of yard signs, strip
clubs, and billboards: billboards , billboards advertising pork and pig kings and
grocery stores named after pigs, billboards advertising oversized
vehicles, and billboards advertising patriotism, all of which dwarfed
the short, flat, widely-spaced architecture spread thin over the
countryside. Among the fast-food restaurants and Wal-Marts and pork
outlets and clusters of trailers, were old, dilapidated barns—wooden
structures with rusty metal roofs that were falling in on themselves,
as if they had been punched by a big fist from above.
We arrived at the airport at 10, met the pilot, walked around the
plane a couple times, and, moments later, we were drifting over
the edge of the state, taking pictures of a giant algae bloom, hog
farms, and the deceptive beauty of pollution—the unnaturally
bright colors of chemical waste, neon green wetlands, rose-colored
lakes, thick white clouds that pour out of smoke stacks, and rivers
decorated with brown stripes. But it was a clear, windless day,
and from my vantage point, I could see the sun glaring off the water
and the green tops of miniature trees and armies of birds down below.
And, until my stomach reconsidered the trip, I enjoyed spying on
the world and documenting it. I even took my first roll of , which takes pictures of heat, rather than of
conventional images.
On the way home, we stopped at an army surplus store called Pappy's,
where I bought a cheap pair of used combat boots and read rows of
. For the first time, I thought about the meaning
behind that and I contemplated the history of my new shoes,
shoes that have likely been in perpetual combat circulation. Had
anyone been killed while these were worn? Including the person that
wore them? Wow, this day was much more exciting than I'd anticipated
two days ago, when I thought I'd be spending it confined to my cubicle
in Durham.
(Coming soon: pictures.)
Tuesday, 19 February 2002
Fifteen minutes after getting dressed this morning, there were
three fresh holes in my newest pair of tights. Two of them made
with my rather blunt and rather short fingernails while trying to
get the things on, one made after getting hooked on one of the pointy
red-and-yellow flames on my steering wheel cover. I guess my wearing
skirt to work today was supposed to counter the haggard-looking
head of hair that I wore with it. I have this habit of assuming
no one in the office really notices what I look like, especially
those in other generations. I remember being genuinely surprised
when, just after changing my hair color, a man in his seventies
commented on the change (incidentally, it was a neutral comment).
I was equally surprised when my four-year-old nephew noticed my
red streaks. I don't know why either should've surprised me—both
can see perfectly fine. It's not like they're cats or anything (which
can also see fine, but never seem to notice the color of my hair).
Maybe I should make a point of remembering that my coworkers have
eyes before I leave the house in the morning.
Monday, 18 February 2002
I walked to a bar a block from my house to play a game of pool,
and, while I was ordering a drink, the girl standing next to me
asked me, What are you drinking?. I mumbled a response, wondering
to myself why she wanted to know. I half expected her to offer to
buy me one (though I was hoping she wouldn't try), but she didn't.
She just kept firing off questions, one after another, where do
I live/was I in school/what do I do for a living, providing information
about herself in the appropriate spots...you know, a regular conversation.
But since we hadn't been introduced by a third party, since she'd
just launched into getting-to-know-you small-talk without any apparent
reason, I was suspicious. Was she a lesbian? No, she just gestured
to a guy sitting behind her and referred to him as her boyfriend.
Maybe she's new in town and doesn't know anyone. I kept trying to
figure out what her angle was, why she had approached me and just
started talking. Then I had the thought, maybe she doesn't want
anything at all. Maybe she's just being friendly. When the hell
did you become so cynical, Lisa?
I ended up playing pool with an arrogant guy and his shy girlfriend,
neither of whom I'd seen before. He had sunglasses perched on his
head and kept talking about The Hustler, all of his shots
were powerful but erratic (in fact, all of his movements were exaggerated),
and he kept joking about playing for money. Or maybe he wasn't joking.
I guess I've lost my sense of perception altogether.
***
I've put up a screen shot from last
Wednesday's show. I think it might be the only time I smiled that
whole hour.
Sunday, 17 February 2002
Saturday, 16 February 2002
The male woodcock fluttered and sang and swooped in the sky,
and a group of us—strangers, mostly—hovered quietly by
the edge of the woods, pointing, whispering, and watching through
binoculars as the sun faded. So quiet that I could hear the crackling
of a nylon jacket as someone readjusted, the divorce of velcro on
someone's camera bag, the muffled beeps of a friend's insulin pump
from underneath layers of clothing. The group stood fascinated,
and, I must admit, I felt like they all possessed some secret that
hadn't been shared with me. A bird, looking for a mate, flying and
singing. I liked the arc it drew in the sky, its distinct song,
its predictability. But was there something more? I had driven ten
miles and stood in the cold for an hour to see it do another version
of what birds do daily right behind my house.
While I was busy squinting and observing (the people around me more
than the woodcock), my cat Leeches was busy devouring one of the
birds at home, splitting it jaggedly down the middle, scattering
feathers, body parts, and blood on my back porch.
Friday, 15 February 2002
Steve let me off work early so that I could ride with Stephanie
so that I could pick up my car (5 days and $630 later) so that I
could stand there for an hour-and-a-half in the cold, so that I
could watch my car move up and down on the lift, people crawling
underneath it and inside of it and leaning over its hood, covering
it like ants on a crumb. Meanwhile, the sky slowly turned pink and
orange on rippled clouds, and I stood among gutted out vehicles
and machinery watching cars fly by on the highway and studying the
barbed wire fence and contemplating digging pennies out of the dirt.
I heard an angry-sounding voice blaring from megaphones on top of
a van with John 3:16 painted on the side, its volume surging and
waning relative to its distance. I only caught a glimpse of it as
it made its rounds throughout the neighborhood, its location as
elusive as that of an ice cream truck.
Thursday, 14 February 2002
So it went okay last night, despite my little breakdown just
before the show. It was 7:40 and I was still at home, getting mad
at my sock drawer for being too full and for tipping over the lamp
on top when I tried to get a clean pair out, the dresser lurching
forward with each tug of the drawer. (I wore a dirty pair of socks
in protest.)
No time to relax, no time to rehash my understanding of the Bush
administration's relationship with the Taliban, no shower, no dinner,
no lying on the bed with the cat on my chest and my eyes closed,
wondering why the hell I agreed to go on television and talk about
politics. No, instead, I just rammed through my evening like a juggernaut
and showed up on the set at 5 till 8, 5 minutes until I was supposed
to be composed and poised and insightful.
There were five of us on camera—Todd (the host) and four female
panelists, each of whom had chosen a topic to discuss. Of course,
all of us were encouraged to add to any of the topics at hand, but
we thought it was a good idea to narrow our focus for organizational
reasons. (My topic was the proposed oil pipeline through Afghanistan.)
Once the discussion began to gain force, my nervous anxiety slowly
evolved into political frustration, and I began talking. I don't
remember saying anything ridiculous; I do remember feeling awkward
about my hands, though. Where should they go? I could see myself
on the television out of the corner of my eye, gesturing at the
bottom of the screen. Stop that. Keep your hands still. I couldn't
look directly at the screen, because if I was on it, it meant that
the camera was on me, which meant I had to guess the position between
slouch and stiff, or whether it was preferable to the viewers that
I talk at the camera or talk to the group. I know which one I preferred.
Afterwards, the buzz of adrenaline suddenly noticeable, my cheeks
hot and pink, I breezed through the and onto Melanie's party, and then the juggernaut
ran out of fuel. Home. Read one paragraph in bed, the cat beside
me, asleep.
By the way, my car will spend another day in the shop tomorrow.
That's five out of the last six work days. The only good thing about
that is that the car people feel so sorry for me that they're giving
me rides to work and they've started doing some of the labor for
free.
Wednesday, 13 February 2002
Number of…
weekdays (of the last four) that my car has been in the shop: 3
people I've pestered to give me rides to and from the car shop:
4 (including an employee of the shop, whom I hadn't met before)
operations performed on my car: 0
additional days my car will sit in the shop: 1
hours of sleep I got last night: 5.5
caffeinated beverages consumed today: 3
parties I'm expected to attend this week: 3(!)
music venues I'm expected to visit this week: 3
websites I'm supposed to update this week: 2
cable access shows I will appear on tonight: 1
showers I need before that happens: 1
hours of sleep I need before that happens: 4
hours before that happens: less than 4 (...less than 1)
Tuesday, 12 February 2002
The people I spend time with and communicate with are not the
people who work behind the counters at army surplus stores with
the buzz cuts and gun racks. They're not the people in the long
mid-afternoon lines at Wal-Mart, buying plastic and wrappers and
grams of fat. They're not the clean-cut golfers at the country club;
the thirty-something mothers at the Baby Gap; the blue-haired women
walking in packs at lunch buffets; the Vietnam veterans on street
corners; or the sparkly ladies at jewelry stores, covered in ornaments
like human Christmas trees. A million places where I feel uncomfortable.
invisible. misunderstood. moody. A handful of places where I manage
to forget and enjoy.
For years now, I've been whittling away at my surroundings, amputating
environments that aggravate my cynicism, phasing them out, one by
one. I'm tired of that feeling that creeps over me when I am out
of my element, that mixture of disdain and resentment for values
so different from my own. And so I shed the disagreeable components
and gather the good things around me like a warm comforter: the
people I like, the music, politics, food, and concerns, the things
that make life pleasant.
Only in rare moments—when I find myself standing in the middle
of the mall, dining in an overpriced restaurant, pulling into a
highway truck stop in middle America, strolling past one of the
frat parties on my street, or peeking inside courthouses and prison
fences—do I realize how out-of-touch I've become. From my position
on the outskirts of the party (watching it, I imagine, like a sober
person watches the drunks), it all appears ugly and pathetic. The
rich seem shockingly arrogant, and the poor seem shockingly ignorant.
Yeah, and I seem shockingly righteous. Perhaps I would reject my
own world in the same manner, if only I could step outside of it
as well.
***
On a lighter note, today I saw this in one of the teacher's manuals
I was editing:
For a student who may become ill and vomit on his or her test
and/or answer booklet and is not able to continue with the test,
do not give the student a new test and/or answer booklet. Put the
soiled test and/or answer booklet in a plastic bag, seal it, and
return the booklet(s) to the scoring company. (That's us!)
Monday, 11 February 2002
Saturday night, at a party, talking to a girl. Interrupted by
someone asking how she'd been, and she went on to say that time
is going fast for her and that therefore things are good. I wanted
this past week to go by fast, and it flew by. And the week before
that went by really quickly too, so yeah, I'm good. I thought
it was odd that, at 21, she'd want her life to slip by so quickly,
when I so desperately want mine to slow down.
***
A gnome, a cast iron cat bank, and Confederate belt buckles. I've
added a new set of pictures to the photos
page: the flea
market.
Sunday, 10 February 2002
me: Can you split this twenty for me?
Convenient Store Man: Sure. Begins ripping twenty dollar bill
in half, as far as the middle of Andrew Jackson's face.
me: Can you give me two tens, that is?
CSM: One for me and one for you?
me: No. Two tens for me.
CSM: One for me and one for you?
me: No. Two for me.
Hands me two fives and a ten.
me, annoyed: Thanks.
***
C'mon, you should know the answer to number
42.
Saturday, 09 February 2002
What do you think that is? Answer: it's my byline in the paper.
(It says Photos by Lisa Whiteman. In actuality it's written
vertically, and I've enlarged it a little.) Last time my photos
were published, it was under the wrong name altogether. Maybe next
time I'll get three-fourths of my name, and, after that, the whole
thing.
Today I composed a new gray cat by uniting the dust under my bed,
helped take a couch to the thrift store, and ate my first fake bacon,
complete with fake marbled fat. Up and down all day. Sometimes I
don't know where my bad mood comes from, but sometimes I think it's
because I don't want to look. Just like that dust cat under the
bed, who's been hiding there this whole time.
Friday, 08 February 2002
Written on the label of the bottle of wine I bought yesterday:
…is also a great wine—best served with friends
and good humor (pizza or red meat will also do nicely). I have
a bottle of wine that suggests I drink it with pizza.
It's not bad wine, but what do I know? It has to be pretty bad for
me to notice. One such case happened in France, when I was there
studying abroad. Another American student and I reasoned that French
wine couldn't be bad; France is the wine country, right?
Well I think that European wine must be something like European
film—sure, all of it's good, because only the good stuff is
exported. The difference that I failed to notice was that I wasn't
choosing from exported wine—I was standing in a French corner
market choosing from the cheapest bottles I could find. (I think
I paid the equivalent of two dollars for the bottle I ended up buying.)
We tried with unreasonable commitment to drink that bottle of wine—big
gulps, little sips, from the bottle, from wine glasses, drinking
it with food, chasing it with water—I vaguely remember even
pouring some of it in plastic bottles, so that we could drink it
on-the-go. Of course with each attempt we'd break down in fits of
laughter, cursing the taste in disbelief. I don't know why we were
so dedicated, why we didn't immediately buy another, slightly more
expensive bottle to replace it, why we missed the point entirely,
that is, to enjoy the wine. Eventually we admitted defeat
and poured the remains down the sink.
Thursday, 07 February 2002
Last September it was announced that the editorial department
would move to a new floor, and that we should democratically determine
which existing desk space we would receive. We were each handed
a crudely drawn map of the editorial department to-be, directions
for claiming office space (name your top three choices, 1-3), and
a disclaimer: you will probably not get your first choice.
It didn't take me long to choose, since there was only one spot
I wanted: the one next to the door, where I could slip in and out
unnoticed (innocently, of course), far enough away from the boss's
cube so that I wouldn't (ahem) disturb him if I needed to make a
phone call, and wedged into a corner with two real walls.
To my surprise I got my first choice, only because the boss reasoned
that since I both edit and help with graphics occasionally, I should
be positioned between the editors and the graphics people.
So it's been five months, and the benefits are as I expected; basically,
I have a little more privacy than I would've, had I ended up elsewhere.
Problem is, nobody else has any privacy. Well, that is, nobody in
the bathroom. That's right: one of the sturdy plaster walls I was
drooling over is in fact the only thing separating me from the single-toilet
bathrooms. All day I get to hear various liquids going various places
at various speeds from various heights.
It's pretty easy to tune it out, or to subconsciously train myself
to think of it as something else entirely, but sometimes it occurs
to me what it is I'm hearing and, worse, imagining. Yesterday, the
girl who sits next to me suddenly said to no one and everyone at
the same time, "Oh, man, I just realized what that noise was"
and started laughing, referring to the noise that the warped roll
of toilet paper in the women's room makes when it gets tugged, the
heavy roll falling back on itself, thump, thump, thump. Then, addressing
me through our cloth divider, she asked, "How do you stand
it?"
Wednesday, 06 February 2002
If you sit directly on the slanted hardwood floor, you catch
the cold draft that constantly pours in from somewhere (some hidden
gaping hole you can never find) right on the spot where your shirt
doesn't quite meet your pants, that banana-shaped slice of exposed
skin particularly sensitive to those cold fingers of air that wrap
around you like an unwelcome embrace.
If, while standing, you hold your hands straight up in the air,
or, better yet, if you stand on a chair or a table, you discover
what happened to the heat that blows out of that tired, overworked
vent above your head: it hangs like a dense cloud above you in the
space between the tops of your shelves and the 10-foot ceilings,
a pocket of invisible warmth that floats at an inconvenient latitude,
exactly where you appreciate it the least. You spend most of your
time in the world in between, cursing the extremes above and below,
unable to get them to desegregate, make peace, be friends. You give
up and shuffle around the house in capes made of blankets.
***
Hm.
And I was worried about my $19...
Tuesday, 05 February 2002
Monday, 04 February 2002
Words people have recently typed in search engines to find this
site: melt-banana t-shirt, Whiteman recycling, yogurt covered raisins
diet, plastic Hershey's Kiss, garterbelt photos, UK Honda Accord
pictures 1988, Ronald Reagan 2002 birthday, wet nylon, West Virginia
police, Home Depot resume, my party Lisa, clothes store: plastic
belts. I wonder if they found what they were looking for. Hmm. No
Reagan plastic yogurt party. Disappointing.
***
In theory, I like having seasons. I like the idea of winter when
it's warm outside, or even when there's a healthy dose of snow on
the ground. But not when wind blows a gutter off my house, or when I
have to drive on the highway in weather with all four windows down to keep from choking
on gasoline . No, I don't like that very much.
Sunday, 03 February 2002
I was coasting down a hill on my bike when Martin asked me to
turn around and come back, so I could witness it first-hand. He
was looking down at the street at what looked like pieces of paper,
and, wishing he could just tell me what it was, I begrudgingly began
pedaling back up the hill. Out of breath and at the top, I looked
at my feet and saw money—$19 of it, crumpled and obviously
misplaced. Wait—I just had $19 in my pocket...oh. I
don't know how it happens, how it works its way out of my pocket
in one giant clump and then is dispersed like dandelion seeds without
me noticing, but this isn't the first
time. Is that where all my money goes, into the pockets of lucky
pedestrians?
Also: Sat on my roof with a beer and a cat and watched the pink
clouds turn gray. Vacuumed out my car but for some reason kept street
maps of St. Louis and Los Angeles. Winced as my cat Leeches sprang
up at the back of the chair, clawing at the hair that hadn't yet
been saturated with dye. Went to a loud party with a loud band,
the lead singer appearing only to mouth the words of his songs,
because I couldn't hear any of the words at all. Decided my mom
needs a bike for her birthday (which is tomorrow). Combed the flea
market as the last few people packed up their goods and used my
secret spy lens for the first time.
Ended up buying a bowling clock, a small metal plaid plate with
a chicken on it, two lanterns, and a blue bike
(from the early 70s?) that has collapsible baskets on either side
of the back tire. (Wait, maybe that's where all my money
goes.) Rode a bike around the flea market parking lot with lanterns,
a chicken plate, and a bowling clock in my baskets. Ate too many
sour brite crawlers. Fell asleep while watching Brazil. But
not in that order.
Friday, 01 February 2002
There's a bulletin board in the hallway at work which I usually
completely ignore, but today it caught my attention, thanks to a
new flier that's been thumbtacked to its middle. I think what originally
caught my eye was the phrase "Homeland Security Expo 2002,"
which would've been plenty by itself, but, as I kept reading, I
discovered there was more. Lots more. See
for yourself.
Yes, that's right. At the Homeland Security Expo 2002, which will
be held at the local armory, you can eat unidentifiable bits
of pig carcass and ride in a race car simulator. Why? I don't know.
Expo 2002? What does that mean exactly?
(Lisa, what's a pig
pickin'? Can I see a disturbing picture?)
***
By the way, a site
I designed a few months ago was finally launched today. It's very
exciting for you, regardless of your interests. (not really)
<<Mar
2002 | Jan 2002>>
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