Erynn is moved in and basically immobile until tomorrow morning. We came over tonight and threw imaginary rocks of prose at her window until we were summoned so I could check out her new digs. It's nice to hear her say hello.

So. Today wasn't all that sweaty, but I still got plenty wet running through sideways rain in the Sears parking lot. I helped David get his icebox, which I think ties together the room very nicely. Tonight my feet are just kind of sweaty. Maybe tomorrow will be my last first-day-of-school ever. Maybe not, though.

Just between you and me I don't know what I'm doing here

full of shit and free beer.



What's up, hot stuff? It's dank here, not blustery, but damp, humid, salty, four showers a day. First when we said goodbye to the Millers as they departed for New Hampshire. Next was after walking around with David to get food and books, avoiding a thunderstorm. Third, I decided to finally kill my room, watching the Patriots intermittently for Adam's sake. Now I'm headed up again. If it's O.K. with you, I'll take off these shoes and stay the night.

I think I'm pretty clean. I've always been pretty easy on things. Toys, linens, sports equipment and even some clothes have lasted longer than expected. Chances are if you see me wearing a shirt or pair of pants, I have had them for quite some time.

Especially easy to notice are the shirts that are too short and the pants that are tight around the waist.

So why do I keep getting shit all over them? There was the coffee-on-the-tie morning. The medicine-pink-soap-on-the-shirtsleeve late afternoon. Today was the fixing-the-fucking-photcopier-grease-on-the-pantleg late lunch.

... sitting down. I decided against fixing the paper jam and wrote those last two words. Now I'll head out and take advantage of this afternoon off from phonecalls and spreadsheets. Bye for now.

We Blame the Russians

A Slap in the Face of Public Taste Remember this is 1917.

A few of those men you see are familiar to me. I recently purchased a t-shirt from a street vendor on Eighth Street right before Third Avenue where it turns into St. Mark's. A woman was selling t-shirts with Russian avant-garde propaganda posters on them along with actual reprints of the posters and hemp bags with the posters on them. She spoke Russian. I asked her what the word samagon meant because I saw it on a t-shirt. She looked at me like she did not hear me. I do not blame her. She probably does not run into many people who speak Russian despite the fact that when you walk a block to Second Avenue there are a few delicious Ukrainian diners and a Ukrainian hostile across the street. She probably lives near there. She also probably knows everyone around there. Perhaps my Slavic features are not as pronounced as I thought. Oh well.

I purchased a black shirt with a saying that I somewhat recognized. Actually, I have seen that same exact shirt before. Once in New York City earlier this summer and once in Syracuse on a male from New Jersey who was visiting a friend for the weekend. To think we three random males have met the same woman in the same spot. I wonder if it was about to rain when they were there. The words were of course Vladimir Mayakovsky and I learned that the picture of a constructivist baby was by Alexander Kruchenykh.

The Niuean Pop Cultural Archive

and

Art The Magazine

I have not even begun to explore these. Perhaps tomorrow when I have more time.