Sunday, June 29, 2003

Jolly Jeepers!

Beer, VHI, and the Cartoon Network conspire to prevent me from doing my reading before I go to England. It’s a sad day for the study of English literature when a student abandons Fielding’s Tom Jones for Kid and Play’s House Party. But nonetheless, few days remain for me to stand on American soil, so I need to open those damn books until my eyes ooze with learnedness. Thus, this will be my final bloggation before I depart. I need to eliminate all these damn distractions — possibly the last entry until I return to the homeland, as a packed schedule and limited internet access could severely limit this journal’s content. So, in great cliffhanger style:

Our hero turns the page, about to open a new chapter in the story of his life. The misadventures awaiting him in a strange, new land promise to deliver action, thrills, and sexy, sexy surprises. Tune into the Back of the Cereal Box in September for answers to all your questions:

Will Drew find more thrilling action or sexy, sexy surprises in the island nation that invented crumpets, huffiness, and rotten teeth?

Will he determine the source of the strange noises in the attic before he leaves?

What thrilling, action-packed TV shows will Drew miss during his eventful absence?

Will the United States, as Drew suspects, cease to exist during Drew’s absence?

Will England, as Drew suspects, be full of werewolves?

How many times will Drew be mugged?

Will Drew make sweet British love, extending his zone of naked dirtiness to across the Atlantic?

Will former roommate Monique find a penny, transforming an otherwise bland summer into a financial extravaganza of fun and splendor?

Will her new roommate Marcy Farsi steal said penny?

Will the "Extraordinary League of Gentlemen" movie suck as much cock as the trailers would indicate?

Will Agent Cooper be trapped in the Red Room forever?

Do the British truly, as rumored, call miles “kilometers”?

And will Drew’s predicted personal transformation the old country ultimately amount to only the collection of a Queen Elizabeth ventriloquist dummy?

The flow of time may answer these questions — and possibly more! Until then — and hopefully again soon in the future — I am Drew.

Saturday, June 28, 2003


This is my one-hundredth post.

Friday, June 27, 2003

The Digits

By the numbers:
  • Days left until England: 5
  • Books yet to be read: 4
  • Books read: 3
  • Pages yet to be read: about 2000
  • Pages read: about 350
  • CDs burned: 8
  • Number of CDs that can fit in new CD case I bought today: 40
  • Movies watched: around 12
  • Friends from high school contacted: 0
  • Times I went swimming: 5
  • Amount of money obtained in traveler’s checks: $500
  • Bloody noses: 3
  • "Roseanne" reruns watched: 6
  • Journal entries since I left Isla Vista: 9

Thursday, June 26, 2003

Long Live Perdita Durango

I’m watching "Wild at Heart" for the second time, but not even Marietta Fortune’s lipstick-smearing, curly elf shoe toiletside meltdown can keep my attention when I read that Strom “Skeletor” Thurmond is dead. Thank God. He was a reanimated corpse of a senator — a country fried ghoulish reminder of the racist American I can only hope is dying out. The good senator’s death aside, I think I like "Wild at Heart" after all, and not just because I can scan for "Twin Peaks" alumni.

Wednesday, June 25, 2003

Ask a Question, Get an Answer

Asks a headline link on MSN's "news" page: "Are Texas Crooks Different from Those in New York?" Yes, MSN, they are. The crooks in Texas are dead.

In the Conservatory

I don't care what the solution cards say. Miss Scarlet looks way too nice to kill anybody with a candlestick.

Monday, June 23, 2003

Those Little Baby-Type Pumpkins

If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at some guys, throw one of those little baby-type pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think of how crazy war is, and while they're thinking, you can throw a real grenade.
— Jack Handey


Headlights — from cars winding through country roads more than a mile from my bedroom — shine through the window blinds, bending yellow lines around the walls before disappearing. While the light spins, I’m eight again.

The lights are gone and I’m twenty-one, like I should be, and I’m piping music into my ears. Earphones are how I occupy the hours before my usual bedtime. Mom and Dad hit the sack around eleven-thirty, but the frenzy of college and newspaper and Cartoon Network has bumped my crash time until after two or even two-thirty.

I’m listening to a CD I burned freshman year. I’ve re-burned it maybe twice since then, but it’s still the same tracks in the same order, starting with Radiohead’s “Optimistic” and ending with Bad Religion’s “Infected.” It’s just music I thought was good during my first quarter of college. It’s still good. And it’s the first of nine homemade albums that track my musical preferences through the past three years. I feel funny looking at these CDs, realizing that maybe they’re a more telling documentation of my life than this journal could ever be.

Three years. Nine CDs. Nearly two hundred songs. Every track that registered above "just okay" collected and imprinted permanently.

It’s odd how looking at these CDs charts just how much I’ve changed since I started college, when I thought that bands like Radiohead and Blur and the Dandy Warhols were the very definition of alternative. These three bands have surfaced on nearly every subsequent CD I’ve burned but always next two some assortment of bands more progressive than the last. I discovered the Pixies since and retroactively traced nearly everything now getting playtime back to them. I had an phase during which Ben Folds and Olivia Tremor control became good. I had an phase when I got into harder stuff like Division of Laura Lee and the Hives. I don’t know where the hell I’m at now, but I’m listening to stuff like Goldfrapp and Ladytron and I never would have given this weird, electronically-birthed stuff a chance three years ago.

Running this kind of stuff around and around in my head verges on omphaloskepsis, I’m sure, but I think it’s a good way to look at my progress of the past three years. I’ve walked pretty far from where I used to be. Just like I haven’t got a clue why I ditched Green Day for Electric Six, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with myself now. It’s new and weird.

But I like it. It's been a long time since I was eight.

Sunday, June 22, 2003

The Devil's Accounting

As if I didn’t have reason enough to hate my credit card balance, I now owe the good people at Wells Fargo exactly $666.66.


The phone



Good times.

Saturday, June 21, 2003


Tiffany is a good friend with whom I don't speak often enough.

Save It for Later

Maybe it was the stress of moving. Maybe it was the realization that I’m leaving my home of the past two years. Maybe it was the harmonious convergence of the swirl of emotions inside me and the otherwise meaningless lyrics of the English Beat’s “Save It for Later,” but I broke down on the drive home. The way emotions now visibly boil to my surface freaks me out. I don’t know how to deal with them. But nonetheless, I couldn’t help marvel at how much I felt while making a drive I’ve made thirty times before.

An incredible lot happened this year. That’s indisputable. I think I grew — changed — more this year than I did in my two previous years of college. Things that happened last year are like Nick at Nite reruns: dated and hokey by comparison to the now and remembered with the discolored, grainy texture of decaying film stock. I feel tired just remembering. Starting in June and trying to inch forward, memory by memory, knocks the wind out of my body. That, and the thought of my impending move to England gives me goosebumps. I’m growing up, I really am. I feel like I’m at a threshold. Just thinking about the immediate future makes me feel chilly because I know something’s happening — something big that I can’t identify yet even though it will be one of the most important changes of my life. I don’t know what, but I know it’s waiting for me in England. God, England. How fucking insane is that? I can’t even wrap my mind around how wonderful-yet-pants-wetting scary that little island is.

Life afterwards will be different, I’m sure. And not just because a group of people who mean more to me than they will ever realize will have left by the time I return. Life will be different because what’s started will have only further progressed by the time I’m back. At the moment, I’m glad to be trading the foggy, gray color scheme of Santa Barbara for the golden hills and dark green oak tress of Hollister. The sky doesn’t have clouds here like it does in Santa Barbara. That just seems more natural, somehow.
Two dozen other dirty lovers
Must be a sucker for it
Cry cry but I don't need my mother
Just hold my hand while I come to a decision on it.

Sooner or later
Your legs give way, you hit the ground
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down
Sooner or later
You hit the deck, you get found out
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down
You let me down

Black air and seven seas are rotten through
But what can you do?
I don't know how I'm meant to act with all of you lot
Sometimes I don't try,
I just now now now now now now now now now now now
Now now now now now now now now now now now!

Sooner or later
Your legs give way, you hit the ground
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down.
Sooner or later
You hit the deck, you get found out.
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down.
You let me down
You runaway and let me down.

Two dozen other stupid reasons
Why we should suffer for this.
Don't bother trying to explain them
Just hold my hand while I come to a decision on it

Sooner or later
Your legs give way, you hit the ground.
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down.
Sooner or later
you hit the deck, you get found out.
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down
You let me down
You run away, run away
Run away, run away, run away and let me down.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

How I'm Sober Enough to Type This Even Now, I Have No Idea

Birthday documentation:

An additional drunken adventure:

And Moe doing an eerily accurate, drunken imitation of the Amber Tamblyn corpse from "The Ring":

Tuesday, June 17, 2003


At 6 a.m. on Tuesday, the streets are deserted, save the piles of trash and neglected furniture that have transformed Isla Vista into Christmas for seagulls and poor people alike. Taking Tristan to the airport, I think I might not hate the new Radiohead album quite as much as I did yesterday.

I was in a bad place yesterday. I would have hated anything.


the phone



Even now, nothing. I hate myself for letting so much of me rest on my stupid phone ringing, but if it just would, this sour feeling in my stomach would stop, I’m sure. I hate myself for being so pathetic that I would let one person stomp on my self esteem, but in a queer way, I’m glad to know I can still get so worked up about something — that the emotional iciness everyone’s been so kindly pointing out to me recently can thaw with the proper stimulation. I hate myself for letting one person preoccupy my mind when I should be processing a million other things — England, moving, the imminent departure of several friends. And I hate that this is my penance for being such a lousy boyfriend to everybody else all my life. Shit, I'm the one who's not supposed to call, not the other way around.

I’m worried my new found emotions might spoil England. I’m just that dumb: to let some potentially insignificant thing ruin what could be a life-changing experience.

I’m worried being at home might suck, what with the constant problem with pronouns.

And I’m worried this peculiar, rhythmic thumping in my chest might be how things are from here on out.

STNohj: Yes drew, you’re a real boy

Monday, June 16, 2003

Phone Betrayal

Too much drinking = three-day long hangover.

Not getting a phone call when I expected one = shaken sense of self esteem.

Love does funny things. My brain and my genitals — and my heart? — conspire to make me look like an idiot, and I can’t stop them. In a way, I’m almost relieved that I’ve gotten this upset waiting for that fucking phone call. I’m not completely dead inside if I can freak out like this.


Move in/move out = a MTV reality show’s worth of fresh-faced personages gracing my living room, plus a general furniture emporium atmosphere in my once-tidy home.

I have this great idea for a TV show. It’s called “Meghan’s Nightmare.” You go to Meghan’s house and keep moving in random people and random people’s stuff and you see how long it takes for her to snap and start flogging noggins with the mallet she uses to kill the cats in the lab. And you have this little freak out meter on the side that tells you how far into madness the situation has pushed her.

Thursday, June 12, 2003

Like a Record, Baby

A drunken epiphany: the song "You Spin Me Round" by Dead or Alive rattles our dishes if volumed properly. Done with finals!

Tuesday, June 10, 2003


"Opoponax" is such a bizarrely beautiful word. It’s Molly’s perfume in Ulysses.

The Five-Day Journey to Adulthood

I’m homeless. I’m dirty. I smell — all for the sake of art. Wait. Homeless people drink a lot, right? Maybe I could just — [SCENE MISSING] — Wow. That sure was a some final.

Now it’s my birthday. I’m a human action figure. My pants are down around my ankles and my hand in on my crotch. I’m holding an umbrella — again, for the sake of art.

Now I’m at the Study Hall. Down goes an Irish Carbomb. Down goes a Long Island Ice Tea. Down goes something Marisa calls a Butter Cock. Wow. I sure have been drinking a lot. Maybe I should — [SCENE MISSING] — Marcy! I’m talking to Marcy about — [SCENE MISSING] — Hey, I ended up at the Nexus somehow. Another shot? Sure, Nate! A capital idea! I’ll just — [SCENE MISSING] — Puking on the bathroom floor — [SCENE MISSING] — Daniel’s forehead got all bloodied up — [SCENE MISSING] — And I’m home. Now I’m only wearing boxers. Now I’m lying on the floor so that Jill can see my dick. And now I’m throwing up again. And now I’m brushing my teeth with Jill’s toothbrush. And I’m out.

Morning. Damn close to afternoon. No hangover because I puked up all the booze. Hangover breakfast where Jen works. Eww. Bloody Marys. But chowder is good. Class. Now I feel sick. Hangover or just general disgust with class?


Friday night dinner in Morocco. The best rabbit I’ve ever eaten, plus the best meat-with-sugared pastry appetizer ever. And old leathery belly dancing. Cory, Tristan, Daniel, Kristina, Taryn, Moe, Jessica, Nate, Justin, Kristen, Edith, Kelly, Meghan, and Jill. So happy these people came. A lot of people who meant something weren’t there, but fuck — these people are worth becoming an adult with. Plus campfire childhood injury stories.

Birthday celebration: day four. Lounging as if finals were a month away instead of Tuesday. The new “Matrix”, finally. I’m confused. Am I a program? Is Persephone a program? I think… maybe… this movie… BLOWS.

And the celebration of my birthday should end… right about… almost… hold it… hold it… now. And there. Real life can once again resume.

Friday, June 06, 2003

An American Cat

kidicarus222: do we have class today?
kidicarus222: like, irish lit class?
hpj16: no i dont think so
kidicarus222: whew
kidicarus222: good
kidicarus222: that's what i thought
hpj16: at least i hope not. cause i am in pj's
kidicarus222: i am in a towel
hpj16: thanks for that visual
kidicarus222: okay, pajama girl
hpj16: well it is not as risque as a towel!
kidicarus222: well, i don't know what your pajamas look like
hpj16: LOL well i can give you a description if you want ;-)
kidicarus222: no, you don't need to tell me
kidicarus222: leopard print nighties
kidicarus222: you know, to arouse marula
kidicarus222: meow
kidicarus222: or should i say "mngknao"
hpj16: he is an american cat. he needs something like a stars and stripes flag to arouse him
hpj16: mngknao!

Wednesday, June 04, 2003


I just got twenty-one, folks.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003

Trapped in Rosemary Woodhouse's Kitchen

12:21 p.m.

Waiting for Godot. Go-dough. Go-DOUGH. Go go. Gogo. He’s a mimic. Estragon is Gogo too. Vivi? Dodo. They’re extinct. Go dot. God ot. God ought. God dot. Goad ought. Goat odd. An odd goat.

Turnips. (And sprouts.) Talking around something. Talking in circles. What is a turnip? Turn up? Tur-NIP? Like pars-NIP? Language can’t define anything. Language just talks around something, without getting you there. Like this play. Circular. Repetitive. Boring. Cory says funny. Sigrid says funny too. Why is her name Sigrid? An odd name. An odd goat. Is Sigrid God? No, that would be lame.

Für Elise. Fur Elise. Not “for” — Für. With an umlaut. A bagatelle by any other name. Again! Für Elise again? I wonder what the person who keeps butchering Für Elise looks like. She should practice more. Just not now. Where is Elise today?

I am trapped in Rosemary Woodhouse’s kitchen and I have less than twelve hours until I am an adult.


MsMSweet: Drewwyy, I'm gonna do a nationally aired infomercial with actress/model Susan Lucci!

Monday, June 02, 2003

Your Mama Named You That?

Nightlife in Isla Vista just isn’t what it should be during Dead Week.

I hate Davidson Library. It’s a towering dungeon of shitty chairs, their cushions flattened so long ago by acid wash-wearing asses. I only go there when I have a paper that requires research. And I loathe research.

Plus it’s a genuinely creepy place — would be a lot creepier if the fluorescent lights didn’t make everything look a bus depot. But there’s this bizarre system of air currents that blow through all eight floors of the library, wafting that old book smell everywhere. The wind howls through the cracks around every door, stopping only when somebody enters a room and then resuming when the door closes. And then inexplicably, far from any door or window or other kind of portal, these random gusts blow by. A weird place. No quiero la biblioteca.

I need to finish an eight-page paper on changelings in Irish literature by noon. I think I should sleep now though. I actually thought of substituting "Gapfrizelle" for my TA’s name, Vanessa. As a joke. I’m not sure even I can remember why that’s funny anymore.

Sunday, June 01, 2003

Wouldn't It Just Turn Purple in Your Mouth?

People are morons.

Campfire Style

There’s this skillfully written article in the new Rolling Stone about this guy, Jonah Falcon, whose life sucks because he has a giant dick. Odd, yes. It’s 9.5 inches flaccid, 13.5 inches erect. The guy who wrote it, Robert Kurson, sure knows how to write about giant dicks.
Tense your forearm. Now wrap your hand around the middle of the muscle. That is the girth of the erection. Those who have witnessed it describe it as ‘grotesque,’ ‘gorgeous,’ ‘hideous,’ and ‘stunning’ … His balls are proportionately huge, each the size of a grade-A jumbo egg. When erect, Falcon’s penis generates enough heat to warm hands — campfire style — from a distance of six inches...

Along the route to the subway station this late Saturday afternoon, Falcon will need to pause every few blocks for an ‘adjustment’ — a reconciliation of penis and pants to facilitate comfortable locomotion. The move, performed over twenty years, is Houdini seamless; if you don’t know what to look for, you never see it.

As he walks, Falcon shifts his baseball glove from his left hand to under his right armpit, pivots so that he is facing a store window, pulls out the elastic waistband of his skintight baseball pants with his right hand, then uses his left to lift the penis back into its sideways position — it had drifted down his leg and was pointing earthward. Once his organ is securely wedged to the left, he releases his pants with a thwap, flips his glove back onto his catching hand and resumes his stride up New York’s Eight Avenue.

Hebrew Rap

shrrequiemd8: i got my car washed
shrrequiemd8: so i wont get hepatitis
shrrequiemd8: my roomate is bugging me to go to that jewish rap thing
shrrequiemd8: "the finest rap acts from the hebrew community"


So I think one of our nation’s finest natural resources is woefully underused.

Burn victims.

I have this great idea for a new show called "Burn Victim Parade". You have burn victims come our and show their hideous, fire-spawned deformities and then viewers call in and vote on which ones deserve reconstructive surgery the most. It’ll be great. Also, I have an idea for a version of the opera Figaro performed entire by burn victims. It’s called Disfigaro.