I wish that there were more than the twenty four hours in the day

Would somebody please sweep these up into some sort of intelligible thing?

• What the hell do they put in the coffee in Seattle? Nicotine, because it’s more addictive than heroin? People move there and suddenly they’re writing a series of epistles about drinking java. (This is my friend Little Marvel Stove, who just started studying romanticism (going to graduate school) and realism (being at graduate school), and this last entry, which is about not going to coffee, follows two explicitly coffee-themed entries.)

• Actually, the problem with Seattle is that it’s very dark and gloomy. Here we drink in the sunshine as if it were coffee. Greetings from Anhedonia, California.

• My mother used to say, “I love hard work. I could watch it for hours.” (She’d say this when I was hauling firewood, ha ha.) Well, as a result of watching a bunch of shows about doctors and White House aids and television people and inn owners and Cylons and mobsters, I’ve realized that if I watch one more person working hard, I’m going to explode. Clichés are always wrong.

• Just finished Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Hint: he does not reveal even one of the seven pillars. Here’s what I love about T. E. Lawrence: the man studies character the way most people read books. Like a good read of someone’s acquired facial characteristics, this is something that was commonly practiced through the nineteenth century, and then disappeared (from novels and memoirs, at least) when the standards by which a person could be judged disappeared into the general modernist social morass. You can say all you want about the inaccuracies of phrenology, which is only 30% ill, but mean people get mean, pinched faces that appear to be stretched by invisible clothespins. (Like the editor of Artaud, who told him his handwriting appeared to be “sucked by invisible whirlpools.”)

• Rather than buying a series of s’allright albums and trying to love them all, I have decided to only love Night Ripper by Girl Talk. It is a combination of every song ever recorded, including Elastica, Britney Spears, Juelz Santana, the Pixies, and Ciara all on two tracks. It sounds exactly like the inside of my head, or it would if it included that gargantuan synth riff from Timberlake’s “My Love.”

• The white, chilly corner of Albertson’s where they sell the liquour and process the one-hour photos is pretty depressing. The only thing that isn’t depressing about it is the Moet Chandon White Star, which I’ve only had once in my life, and not on this coast, either. It tasted, at the time, like airports.

• I get up in the morning, wash my face, go see Shortbus. I go to bed. I get up in the morning, wash my face, go see Shortbus. I will keep it from dying out in a week, singlehandedly, through ticket sales and the incandescent power of love.

• Great quote from early in the morning last night: “I read Fielding, who’s supposed to be funny, and don’t find him funny at all. Then I read Richardson, who isn’t trying to be funny, and find him hilarious.” This is working on two levels. I’ll say just one more word: Lord Davers. If you still don’t get it, that’s fine, but you should probably watch 24 Hour Party People.

• You should start a blog, or send me a link to your blog. I would read it. Drinking coffee takes forever, and RSS is a great technology.

Good night to you. I’m a-gonna get rich. If I get another royal flush I’ll take pictures.