Monthly Archives: July 2002

General

Here I go

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My trip to the West Coast is impending. I dropped off my cat with Vince and Sara. The separation trauma is palpable.

Over on my forum, I have gone to the trouble off preparing a jokey itinerary, which I am reproducing here for the forum impaired.

The itinerary of my entire trip:

Thursday morning: depart from O’Hare.
Thursday afternoon: arrive in San Diego. Check into hotel. Proceed to convention center.
Thursday evening: party. Find a nerdy girl and have nerd sex.

Friday morning: enjoy con.
Friday afternoon: enjoy con.
Friday evening: party. Find a nerdy girl and have nerd sex.

Saturday morning: enjoy con.
Saturday afternoon: enjoy con.
Saturday evening: party. Find nerdy girls from previous evenings and have nerd threesome.

Sunday morning: meet up with Jim at con.
Sunday afternoon: hang out with Jim at con. Run out of money.
Sunday evening: visit nerd STD clinic.

Monday morning: depart from San Diego.
Monday afternoon: arrive in Seattle.

Tuesday-Thursday: hang out with Darian and Nick. Entertain them with tales of nerd sex and consequences thereof.

Friday afternoon: depart from Seattle.
Friday night: arrive in Chicago.

Saturday: retrieve kitty from Vince and Sara. Weep with happiness.

How closely will my trip match this schedule? Who can say? Who would bother saying? Stay tuned.

Drawing Is Fun, Portraits

Picked a fine time to leave me

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More drawingsy goodness:


This is Lucille.

Lucille and her sister Deb (with whom the more astute Lucubus visitors may already be familiar) comprise two of the main characters of my giant science fiction opus which will probably never be written, let alone drawn, because I’ll just NEVER get anything done with THIS attitude.

True Stories

Surreal it’s fake

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I was on the train tonight, riding home from work, reading a graphic novel called HUMAN TARGET: FINAL CUT by Peter Milligan and Javier Pulido, published by Vertigo/DC Comics; basically, minding my own business. At one station a fellow of approximately age thirty and his friend of similar age boarded the car. The thirtysomething fellow surveyed the scene and casually remarked:

“Lotta fat girls on the train tonight.”

His friend agreed enthusiastically. And you know what? They were right.

General

Batting practice

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Sometimes before I sit down to “write” (about twice a year), I loosen up with a little batting practice – just, you know, writing whatever comes to mind. Usually this nonsense goes straight in the trash, to be followed shortly by whatever serious, feature-type bit I attempt to write afterwards.

Once in a while the results are just embarassing enough, though, to publish shamelessly. This is from mid- to late-2000, judging from various personal subject matter clues. The subconscious is a frightening thing.

Before We Begin:

I vomited up the little bits. It was the technicolor of Supreme Sea Spray, my old favorite juice flavor.

Consider it done, Your Highness.

Yes, the payment has been made.

Unfortunately, your breath stinks too badly for me to even consider doing that right now.

Vicarious consumption, eating patterns unblemished by ruin.

Thousands of times, yes.

No, I never have. When did you?

Cars kept passing us, I thought he was going to actually stop in the middle of the road.

Even on the second date, you wouldn’t?

God, I hate this kind of cornice piece. Look at that fucking dental molding.

The crows kept making noise outside the window, and I couldn’t finish. I looked right in her eyes and I couldn’t finish.

Reset color geom size center.

Warp and weft, man, warp and weft.

She dove under and the current just carried her right into its mouth. Bit her in half, they said.

It’ll sting you, that’s for sure. Don’t go in there.

This bottle’s mostly full. Use this one. No, use this one. It’s pretty full.

I hate the way your butt pokes out of those jeans. Get some real pants for God’s sake.

This money’s not worth the shit it’s printed on.

I haven’t escaped, I’ve just been forcing myself to stay in there this whole time. Wouldn’t you?

I mean, look at her. She’s like teeth on a chainsaw blade.

The rain keeps blowing in the blinds and they keep knocking over the things on the window ledge.

Her hair. Nothing is like her hair. Her hair is like Nothing.

Lose the robe, baby, let’s get this show on the road. Ok, lights!

Haven’t you got the foggiest idea how long it took me to get those in there?

True Stories

Surreal moment of the day

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Today while I was at work, I was picking up the departmental mail in the mailroom, and a man whom I had never previously seen stopped in front of me and started singing the chorus to Frank Zappa’s “Dancin’ Fool”.

I thought to myself, how could he possibly know?

Health and Body, Lucacentric

Sail on me, the salt sweat sea

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The heat index was somewhere around one hundred ten degrees Farenheit in the city today.

At risk of making myself sound like a totally gross person, I have of late been defining the seasons by my bodily drippings. And I do not mean the shist or the pist, gentle reader. Those take place year round.

I can tell it’s cold outside when my nose starts to run. My nose leaks like a faucet in cold weather, and as soon as I enter a heated room, every little bit of mucous that was waiting for its chance to escape starts to drain out at breakneck speed, and only if I am lucky can I catch it all with a tissue. Were I more inclined to such juvenile behavior, I would probably have an easy time blowing nostril bubbles and the like.

In hot weather, I sweat. God, do I sweat. My sweat output puts my runny nasal drippings to shame. They’d barely fill a thimble, but the sweat would fill buckets. And, similarly, when I walk into an air conditioned room, the sweating does not stop. No, it continues for quite some time. Granted, I rather like the feeling of air conditioned sweat on my skin. However, the fact that it keeps dripping into my eyes is something of a downer.

I walked to work from the train today. If the air were any thicker I would have needed scuba gear to make the journey, or perhaps a pickaxe. I entered my place of employment at around noon. I finally stopped sweating at 2:30 PM, after sitting in the same chair and not moving around all that much in an air condtioned office for nearly two and a half hours.

I took my lunch break at about 6:30 PM, and my heat-fevered mind told me a burrito would really hit the spot. (And it did – the meat was spicy but the guacamole and sour cream really took the edge off.) Needless to say, the sweat returned. This time, the sweating did not cease before I left work at 9 PM. This was due in some part to the fact that I was moving heavy boxes around in an effort to get the place a little more organized before I left. But when I left, I was sweating.

I sat at the train station and waited for the southbound Purple Line train to pass through, and I suddenly realized that the air was crushing me, that it was actually squeezing me like a sponge, which explained the fact that I was leaving puddles wherever I went. And it’s a good thing my hair’s grown out long, or else it wouldn’t have been able to absorb it all and my clothes would have been drenched. On the downside, of course, I had nasty, sweaty hair.

Hours have passed and I still haven’t stopped sweating. I’ve been drinking plenty of water, and I feel fine, but the sweat continues. Come to think of it, I have been pretty worried about things lately…

Plus, it’s like, fucking hot out. You know how it is.

Media Studies, Music

Fried potatoes

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Tonight I saw a wonderful concert by a band called Papas Fritas. They are surely one of the best pop-rock bands of this or any era. I have seen them play live twice, and I can say that their live performances are the perfect compromise between matching the high production quality of their recordings, and the charming little things that can only happen during live shows, such as one of the members covering “What a Wonderful World” while the rest of the band scramble for a replacement bass drum pedal.

They have three albums out. They are all excellent. Buy them all.

They have sound clips on their website here. Go to!

Media Studies, Music

No. It’s NOT obvious.

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Digital Underground, “Humpty Dance”, second verse:

People say “Yo, Humpty, you’re really funny lookin'”
that’s all right ’cause I get things cookin’
Ya stare, ya glare, ya constantly try to compare me
but ya can’t get near me
I give ‘em more, see, and on the floor, B,
all the girls they adore me
Oh yes, ladies, I’m really bein’ sincere
’cause in a 69 my humpty nose will tickle ya rear.
My nose is big, uh-uh I’m not ashamed
Big like a pickle, I’m still gettin’ paid
I get laid by the ladies, ya know I’m in charge,
both how I’m livin’ and my nose is large
I get stoopid, I shoot an arrow like Cupid,
I use a word that don’t mean nothin’, like looptid
I sang on Doowhutchalike, and if ya missed it,
I’m the one who said just grab ‘em in the biscuits
Also told ya that I like to bite
Well, yeah, I guess it’s obvious, I also like to write.

That’s nice, Humpty. I like to write too. But in what way have you made this obvious?

Is it that you have choreographed this little dance of yours? Where you limp to the side like your leg was broken, shakin’ and twitchin’ kind of like you were smokin’? That’s not writing, son. That’s choreography.

I know that you have love for Hennessy, crackers, and licorice. And while it is no doubt true that many writers enjoy these items, no substantial connection has been made linking the two. If I am to infer you like to write from these examples, well, that’s a leap in logic I’m just not ready to take.

Perhaps you have written this rap, and that’s why it is obvious you also like to write. I submit that this does not necessarily follow. It’s possible, given the clues, that you find writing to be a real chore. You like to rhyme; you like your beats funky. The way I see it, you’d be much more at ease freestyling in front of a crowd than hunched over a table at home trying to figure out what rhymes with “Burger King bathroom”. And while an argument can be made that freestyling is in fact writing, surely it is unconventional by today’s standards; and the average listener would be hard-pressed to jump from this to the conclusion that you have a love of the craft of writing.

So, no. Not obvious at all. I recommend you amend the line to the following:

And this is somewhat notable: I also like to write.

You will thank me later.

Hot Uncensored Chat

These dreams

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lucahack: I’ve been asleep since 7 PM!
foldingsuplex: not any more you’re not!
lucahack: true
lucahack: I was having this intense dream that I was taking this outdoor performance art class
foldingsuplex: fun
lucahack: and the instructor was an ex-porn star and she kept bringing it up
foldingsuplex: that sounds fantastic.
lucahack: and one of the girls in the class was also a porn star and they kept talking about how the old days were difficult
lucahack: and at the same time kept going on and on about the nature of “performance”
lucahack: and every person in the class had their own individual meditation platform up at the top of a very tall tree
lucahack: and I lay down on mine and was going to take a nap in the sun, but I was worried that in my sleep I would roll over and fall off it
lucahack: and then I woke up and there was an infomercial about acne medication hosted by Vanessa Williams on television
lucahack: and I realized that the people in the dream had also been talking about acne problems