Saturday, November 05, 2005

You're only coming through in waves...

I have done everything possible today to keep from writing my thesis, and I have succeeded in doing just that -- not writing my thesis.

Today I had Dim Sum, The Butch Stroll of Brunch, with Kevondrala.

Then we did a little shopping. I was going to buy one of those graffittied hats that the kids are wearing these days, personalized with "Butch Stroll", but I decided against it.

Then I came back to Queens, where I fiddled around, finally started cleaning up my room, took the trash out and cleaned the trash can in which something brown and nasty had spilled, and sat around smoking cigs and downloading random shit on the internet [quicktime].

And while I could not bring myself to write on my thesis, I have all the papers, documents, emails, and websites that will go into it nicely organized. Well, not so nicely, but somewhat organized.

From The Saints' Guide to Happiness by Robert Ellsberg:

Like St. Augstine before him, Pascal saw human beings as torn between a desire for happiness and an innate confusion about where to find it.


I know that's right.

The Butch Stroll word of the day is slugabed.

Saturday Song Lyrics
"At Seventeen"
by Janis Ian

I leaned the truth at seventeen
that love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles
who married young and then retired.
The valentines I never knew,
the Friday night charades of youth
were spent on one more beautiful.
At seventeen I learned the truth.

And those of us with ravaged faces,
lacking in the social graces,
desperatly remained at home,
inventing lovers on the phone
who called to say, "Come dance with me,"
and murmured vague obscenities.
It isn't all it seems
at seventeen.

A brown-eyed girl in hand-me-downs
whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve;
they only get what they deserve.
The rich relationed hometown queen
marries into what she needs.
A guarantee of company
and haven for the elderly."

Remember those who win the game
lose the love they sought to gain.
In debentures of quality
and dubious integrity.
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
in dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
at seventeen.

To those of us who know the pain
of valentines that never came,
and those whose names were never called
when choosing sides for basketball.
It was long ago and far away;
the world was much younger than today
and dreams were all they gave away for free
to ugly duckling girls like me.

We all play the game and when we dare
to cheat ourselves at solitaire.
Inventing lovers on the phone,
repenting other lives unknown
that call and say, "Come dance with me,"
and murmur vague obscenities
at ugly duckling girls like me
at seventeen.

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