There’s a boy in my class who looks just like Seth Green. Except he is much taller, and perfectly proportioned, and not even vaguely simian. But he has the same hair. Anyway, I spent all of yesterday’s ridiculous immigration discussion eyeing him and wondering what he’d look like without his flesh on. He has great bones.

Yesterday I turned in all my papers, so as of today my time is my own. Whatever will I do with myself? I think it’s time to heave pub night onto the slab, order Igor to set up the lightning rods, and get this monster back to terrorizing the villagers where it belongs.* Ideally someone else will do it, though; you know I am shit at planning events. Anyone?

*Kenneth Branaugh is biting his fist in agony over that horribly extended metaphor.

The winds were breeding like bunny rabbits last night, hip-hopping around on each others’ backs and knocking over small trees, people, the dauntless pigeons. You do not want to try distance spitting for the first time on a night when the winds are going at it in all directions, and that is a life lesson that I will pass along to you for free.

The KRON news truck was at my intersection this morning, as it is about once a week. I imagine the story was something like “Strong winds rocked the Castro last night, as residents cowered in their homes, watching television and fearing for their toupees. Six lampposts were nearly overturned and one small toddler fell over while walking. Will your neighborhood be next? Stay tuned.” I love the news.

Saw the John Francis yesterday in all his beardy glory. How can he still be attractive with that fretful porpentine of hair clinging to his face? And yet the ladies seem undaunted.

Despite my remonstrations, the Lad, too, will be using his chin to smuggle a beard home for me. I was hoping for something pretty and exotic, like diamonds, but I’ll take what I can get.

Dreamed I was drumming. “Well, fuck me,” I thought, as the song started and I began tapping my sporks on the table frantically. “I have no sense of rhythm. How the hell did I get here?”

Woke up to a nosebleed from the stress of the dream. Little butterflies of blood now fluttering around on tissues in my trash. “Well, fuck me,” I think, as I stare at my half-completed Ginsberg paper. “I have no sense of the Beats. How the hell did I get here?”

The Lad and Dan met a woman in Athens who knew Henry Miller. Did she know my best friend (and also Robyn’s best friend) Anais Nin?

When he comes home, I will kiss the hand of the Lad who shook the hand of the woman who shook the hand of the man who touched the mouth of Anais fucking Nin. In this way, decades late, I will kiss Anais Nin myself, like delayed starlight moving from my living mouth to her dead and darkened planet.

I fell off my own feet again today. It seems that every so often my feet just decide, in the spirit of experimentation and without input from the brain, to try walking on their sides instead of their soles. This is painful but acceptable when barefoot, but when clomping around in ungainly platform sandals which you only bought because you needed black shoes and these were on sale, you’ve got a long way to fall. So, as usual, my foot twisted sideways to see what would happen and I stumbled and smacked the inside of my foot against the pavement and my shoe came off altogether and then I had to hop around cursing and chasing my shoe as it tumbled end over end trying to escape me and my elephant feet. Luckily no one was watching, except all the people who were.

Now there is a little piece missing from my foot; another fleshy sacrifice laid on the altar of the holy pavement. Lucky I didn’t break an ankle I guess. Perhaps I should change my name to Dodofoot.

If Mary Poppins is real, Burt the chimney sweep is actually a nine year old boy dying of scrotum cancer. And no one can fly.

i seem to like the beats i seem to like to be drinking i seem to be drinking

‘go home work on your papers and sweat all night’ we were told and a girl said ‘gross why do we have to sweat all night?’ thinking of sex we all HOWL.

i got the tower, tarot, stupid card pack not going to tell me what to do.

my school friend heel-toes his foot over to my foot in every class. doesnt like me but his foot does like me. it is a tap dancing affair.

oh fuck i willbe sick

“Can you make sure and get a fund number from Chao today, and also see if you can get the guys to look at my phone and see what’s wrong with it? And I need a lunch reservation for noon, and let’s meet at 2:00 to go over that technical report, okay?” My professor-boss looks up to see me staring at him. “What?”

“It’s Cinco de Mayo,” I say reproachfully.

“Oh…happy Cinco de Mayo?” he says, at a loss.

“Some people take their employees out to lunch on Cinco de Mayo,” I continue, “at the Mexican place on University.”

“Go do your work,” he says, shaking his head.

“Some people do not have their files sabotaged by their assistants while some people are teaching their morning class,” I mutter and I go do my work with a vengeance.