Boringko, the Russian refugee clown.
I am really physically attracted to my computer. Sometimes I pet it or say things like, "I love this computer" or "sexy computer" in front of my girlfriend, who then looks at me with a sort of strange curiosity. To say that my relationship with this machine is romantic would not be a stretch. It's a little iBook, and in the few months I've had it it's never freaked out on me--never! Things never glitch. Fuck. It's excellent.
So yesterday I wanted to write a new incarnation of a conversation I've had with Heather and Goathead, concerning the karaoke bars we follow Ryan to. There are about ten songs that are the karaoke standards, that always get done: 'I Will Survive' is one, as is that unholy anthem, the Grease medley. But, strangely, the Big Butts song is also one, and it's almost always performed or requested by girls. In fact, I can't think of a single time that it wasn't.
So when there are two girls up there singing I always wonder--why? And then, before my eyes, their bodies morph until they are the bodies of eleven year-old girls with huge bloated asses more reminiscent of muffins than of body parts, and I understand.
Found an ant in the bed at 2:56 this morning. That was lame. Thankfully, it was either a lone outrider or a peasant accidentally abducted from outside. Memory from youth: Meagan's bed, next to her window, turned into a fluffy blue plain cut by a little Amazon River of ants.
Last night, purely through a mix of adventurism and blundering, I piloted my car into a rural district of Des Moines. Suddenly I was outside Lovilia, on my way to Stone King or some other wooded and haunted site: gravel road flanked by legions of gnarly dead trees. And then suddenly I was on asphalt again, surrounded by streetlamps and strip malls.
I saw a poster yesterday that contains the entirety of Macbeth, printed in small but legible font that surrounds a large sword. It was not exceptionally elegant in design, but the idea that I was looking at the entire play on one sheet of paper, hanging on a wall, was intensely interesting for about four seconds.
Ever notice how every beverage besides soda makes soda seem cheap? The first time I learned that beer costs between six and twelve dollars per 6-pack I couldn't believe it. And coffee is as bad: two dollars for twenty ounces. Weird weird weird.
I want to draw a comic about Boringko, the boring Russian clown, but I can neither draw nor write comics. So I'm sort of at an impasse.
One last bit: upon leaving Ryan's apartment Thursday night I found a cane in the parking lot, half hidden under a sedan. It was long and white, with a red grip and a worn-down nub at the tip. I assumed it was one of those canes for the blind. As it was dirty, obviously much-run-over, I considered it well abandoned and shoved it into the car for future goofiness. Later I felt a little bad: what if it wasn't abandoned? But the shoddy condition and several tire-ish marks imply otherwise. So, moral advice?
So yesterday I wanted to write a new incarnation of a conversation I've had with Heather and Goathead, concerning the karaoke bars we follow Ryan to. There are about ten songs that are the karaoke standards, that always get done: 'I Will Survive' is one, as is that unholy anthem, the Grease medley. But, strangely, the Big Butts song is also one, and it's almost always performed or requested by girls. In fact, I can't think of a single time that it wasn't.
So when there are two girls up there singing I always wonder--why? And then, before my eyes, their bodies morph until they are the bodies of eleven year-old girls with huge bloated asses more reminiscent of muffins than of body parts, and I understand.
Found an ant in the bed at 2:56 this morning. That was lame. Thankfully, it was either a lone outrider or a peasant accidentally abducted from outside. Memory from youth: Meagan's bed, next to her window, turned into a fluffy blue plain cut by a little Amazon River of ants.
Last night, purely through a mix of adventurism and blundering, I piloted my car into a rural district of Des Moines. Suddenly I was outside Lovilia, on my way to Stone King or some other wooded and haunted site: gravel road flanked by legions of gnarly dead trees. And then suddenly I was on asphalt again, surrounded by streetlamps and strip malls.
I saw a poster yesterday that contains the entirety of Macbeth, printed in small but legible font that surrounds a large sword. It was not exceptionally elegant in design, but the idea that I was looking at the entire play on one sheet of paper, hanging on a wall, was intensely interesting for about four seconds.
Ever notice how every beverage besides soda makes soda seem cheap? The first time I learned that beer costs between six and twelve dollars per 6-pack I couldn't believe it. And coffee is as bad: two dollars for twenty ounces. Weird weird weird.
I want to draw a comic about Boringko, the boring Russian clown, but I can neither draw nor write comics. So I'm sort of at an impasse.
One last bit: upon leaving Ryan's apartment Thursday night I found a cane in the parking lot, half hidden under a sedan. It was long and white, with a red grip and a worn-down nub at the tip. I assumed it was one of those canes for the blind. As it was dirty, obviously much-run-over, I considered it well abandoned and shoved it into the car for future goofiness. Later I felt a little bad: what if it wasn't abandoned? But the shoddy condition and several tire-ish marks imply otherwise. So, moral advice?
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