All posts by Lucas

Dug up #4

Creative Writing class journal entry from 11 October 1993:

My Wonderful Homecoming Experience.

My weekend started off on a lovely note as the football team came to an exciting yet entertaining loss. It’s as though the other team was toying with our minds when they let us score those touchdowns.

Then, the next afternoon, I went to the grocery store to buy Dining Materials, and ended up buying many Tabloid Magazines simply because they had Shannen Doherty on the Cover. Then I went to Chris Harmon’s house, where we cooked dinner by giving everything to his mother and saying, “Make this smell good.” Then, we picked up our dates and came back and ate dinner, during which the conversation topic switched to enemas, after which I went into the family room and passed out.

After renting the movie “Vasectomy!” for after-dance entertainment, we went to the dance, where I tripped over the tarp more than I actually danced. I consumed a lot of punch, because they played a lot of country music. However, fortunately, I did not get blue balls this year.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 40

Catch up!

StoneCo1dCrazy: So how’s your catch up going?
lucahack: I am totally not working on it at all
lucahack: it will probably be lots of one sentence posts
lucahack: or more journal entries from ten years ago
lucahack: I’m even running out of drawings
StoneCo1dCrazy: Stuff like “Gee, Rachel’s a fine dame. I bet she’s a goer”
lucahack: christ, I need more material
lucahack: yeah, stuff like that

Daily Hey Magic Number: 41

Mock up

Here’s a number that I wrote and recorded several years ago with help from my younger brother Tim and mixed very poorly without help from anyone. Words, vocals, and keyboards by me; drums, bass, and backing vocals by Tim. It is a song about the perils of dishonesty.

Some Things Are Fake [MP3, 1.2 MB]

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Roughed up

The world is knocking me about with boxing gloves lately. What’s up with that? I don’t even have my mouth guard in.

Can you at least wait for me to put my fucking mouth guard in, world?

Gas up

Today, my friends, is a day that will live in infamy. Did I say infamy? I meant idiocy. I had to decline a lunch date on the steps of the Art Institute of Chicago with a pretty girl because I was obligated to be at my apartment between 11:30 AM and 3:30 PM so that I could let the person from the gas company in to read my meter.

This meter reading had already been rescheduled from one week before, and had I known about the possibility of the lunch date, I would not have chosen this particular day for it to be rescheduled. However, the appointment was set, and I was forced to decline the lunch date, with an eye towards possible lunch dates in the future.

At about noon, the guy from the gas company came. I had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, and therefore was utterly unprepared to let the gas guy in. Fortunately, the gas guy (who turned out to be a gal) merely wanted to get into my basement. I told her that I would meet her around at the back gate. I put on some pants and went to exit my apartment through the back door. However, I was unsuccessful because, in what was to be a harbinger of the stupid day ahead, the doorknob popped right off the door into my hand. It is to this moment resting on my kitchen counter.

So I had to exit through the front door and run around to the back of the building. I did so, and then opened the basement door for the gas gal. We entered and I pointed her in the direction of a wall filled up with meter-y looking fixtures.

“Those are electricity meters,” she said.

We looked around, and seeing no other meters nearby, peered through a locked gate into another section of the basement, presumably used for storage and janitorial purposes, and sure enough, there was another wall of meters.

“I can tell which one is yours,” she said. “It’s the only one there that hasn’t been upgraded.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, it doesn’t make sense… I can’t figure out why they all weren’t just upgraded at the same time.”

With the meter inaccessible, I walked over to the super’s back door and knocked, to see if perhaps he could get the gas gal at the meter. Alas, there was no answer.

“I guess I’ll have to reschedule,” I told the gas gal.

So, to sum up: declined a date with pretty girl for stupid reason; had stupid encounter with gas company, which was more stupid than was anticipated; must reschedule another stupid encounter for later date which will likely result in declining another date with a pretty girl for what will turn out to be stupid reason.

Gah!

Shape up

AN OPEN LETTER TO PALESTINIAN YOUTH.

Stop blowing yourselves up. Stop encouraging your peers to blow themselves up. If a friend of yours has a plan to blow him or herself up, take them aside and say, “My dear friend, do not blow yourself up.” If your elders encourage you to blow yourself up, give them the finger and tell them to blow it out their asses, but not literally.

See, all the blowing up of people is taking a bad problem and making it much, much worse. You’re struggling. You have a plight, it’s true. You want to make your message heard. Having your message heard, however, is not all there is to getting a problem solved. You also need some sympathy from other peoples. It’s getting more and more difficult to have sympathy for a group that likes to blow itself up. Frankly, you are ruining it for the rest of your people, those who simply wish to live their lives unfettered by the yoke of war. What you are doing breeds fear in the Israelis, and the Israelis’ fear directly results in antagonism of your people. Are you TRYING to get your own people killed? I mean, besides yourself, of course?

The next time you feel tempted to take yourself out and take as many people as possible with you, give it a good think. What awaits you on the other side? You really don’t know. Think about the men, women, boys, and girls who might be injured or killed in such an attack. Put yourself in their shoes. There, now. Aren’t you being a dickhead?

Gandhi and Martin Luther King showed us the way. Passive resistance. Sing spirituals. Let the newscameras come and record the Israelis beating the hell out of you, but don’t fight back. It may seem stupid, but YOU’RE the ones who have been BLOWING YOURSELVES UP, after all.

One more thing to consider: boobies. When in doubt, defer to the boobies, and they will guide for us the way.

Dug up #3

English class journal entry from 26 December 1992:

It’s 6:45 A.M. Ten minutes ago I threw up on my bedroom floor. I woke up and felt my stomach compressing and expanding and my esophagus swelling. I jumped out of bed to find the bathroom, but I didn’t quite make it.

There is now a stain, a pool, a puddle of drying barf in my carpet. Lord, did it taste horrible. It smells like bad ham. Probably what was left of Christmas dinner. My journal was right here and it was already open so I just decided to write this. But I am going back to sleep so I can wake up in a few hours. I’ll probably barf again but I don’t mind because it makes me feel better.

English class journal entry from 28 December 1992:

I barfed three more times on Saturday. The second two times were watery and tasteless but the fourth time tasted like saltines. It happened right after I finished taking a shower. I felt weak, stumbled out of the shower, and put my face in the toilet. It was pretty cool, because I was lying on the floor, naked, cold, and wet, waiting for reverse peristalsis to occur. And when it did, damn! I must have been puking for twenty minutes. And all I had eaten was crackers.

Yesterday I spent as an invalid, but I’m all better now. *urp* Uh… excuse me. I think I’m going to baaaAAAAOOORCH!!! plop plop

Dug up #2

English class journal entry from 7 December 1992:

I’m going crazy!! I’m going crazy!! Who am I kidding?? I am crazy!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[unintelligible scribblings]

Can I lift my head up from the desk now? Someone tell me this is all just a bad dream… My head hurts, probably a result of wisdom teeth, pimples, and some bizarre psychological problem that no one has figured out yet. I don’t even have a reason to be crazy on this particular day, other than the fact that I never get anything I want to do accomplished. Except for STEALING CHALK. Just kidding.

[Author's note: "STEALING CHALK" written on page with stolen chalk.]

English class journal entry from 8 December 1992:

Is there something wrong with stealing chalk? Well, not morally. Chalk isn’t necessary to sustain life like, say, intestines, and the school always has more chalk. Not to say that the school doesn’t always have more intestines, but dammit, I’m not talking about the cafeteria. I’m talking about MORALS, here. MORALS. That’s what it’s all a question of.

For instance, it would be morally wrong to pull Joe’s hair. That didn’t stop me from doing it, however. In retaliation though he pulled my hair which hurt but is morally OK. He doesn’t seem to realize that by pulling his hair, I’ve released harmful gases into the atmosphere that will kill birds.

Dug up #1

English class journal entry from 31 August 1992:

Good morning. It’s 9:00 and it’s time for the Amazing Adventures of Captain Bluenut McFrog!!

To pick up where we left off… Captain Bluenut McFrog was being held captive by the giant Nazi aliens of the planet Skenhed, who had him dangling from a rope above a gigantic vat of chicken broth, threatening to turn him into crackers. Here’s today’s episode!

Tension was building and Bluenut could feel the steam on his face. Suddenly, he had an idea!! He hocked a big loogie and spat into the chicken broth, splattering the boiling substance upon the surprised Skenhedians, killing them as surely as they would have killed Captain Bluenut McFrog.

Since all the Skenhedians were dead, Bluenut was trapped hanging above the vat. Soon, he died of starvation because he could not quite reach the chicken broth. In a few months he began to decay. His limbs eventually dissolved, and he was free! There was nothing restraining him.

You’re free, Captain McFrog! Go, Bluenut, go! Free, but dead. Isn’t that a metaphor for our government today?

Batter up

Tonight, I saw a minor league baseball game featuring the Dayton Dragons in an exciting match with their conference rivals, the Burlington Coat Factories.

In the spirit of this baseball-related merriment, I present to you a song written and performed by my younger brother Tim, starring A. Bartlett Giamatti, the late baseball commissioner and apparent notorious evil mastermind. I hope I translated the lyrics correctly.

Bartlett [MP3, 3.2 MB]

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Board up

Back in the early fall of 1999 I took the Metra commuter train to work every day. I liked to sit on the upper level, because really, how often does one encounter public transportation that has an upper level? Not very.

One day, I glanced to the level below and saw a very attractive girl. As I was hidden from her view, I figured it would be safe, so I immediately whipped out my… SKETCHBOOK! (Pervert.) Anyway, I drew her like so:

metra girl

She did look a bit like Laetitia Casta, now that I think about it. Only she was kind of sweaty. I didn’t draw the sweat.