E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com Archives March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 current Blogs Mandapants farkleberries Uranium City Records The C.M. Sienko Foundation Storyteller Musings Solotarian Views Lynne Wiora Tek Poker News Blog Some Biscuits Evil Eye Emporium Niggling Doubts Pressure Release Sara as Mommy runswithscissors Defective Yeti Afternoon Delight trancejen The Terrarium Bird Nird Slipperily Tofu Hut Stereo Gum Links Fixed Gear Gallery Get Crafty This is Grand Featherproof Books Gapers Block Chicago Bird Watching	No one must know my terrible secret... House of Noh! Thursday, August 19, 2004 I've been hard at work sewing. Sewing what you ask? Sewing big projects for my big trip! I shouldn't brag, really I shouldn’t, but I'm a pretty good sewer. Sometimes some of the older women who work at fabric and craft stores, the really conservative craftresses, (you know the type) get all angry at me and give me shit. Like if I indicate I'm going to sew something with white fabric and red thread, they say mean stuff like, "that would be a good idea... if you want the stitches to show! Dumbass!" What they don't understand in general about my projects is that I sew toward what I envision as my more masculine sewing ideal (lack of attention to detail) - this isn't appreciated in the female dominated sewing world. Also, I don’t think those old craft masters like me in their world. When I was in college I got a reputation for sewing and people would stop by my dorm room and ask me to sew on a button for them or to sew up a tear or something. I would only do it after they formally acknowledged that I was a "master tailor" - I actually made them call me that. Then I would nod my head, all magnaminous-like, reach into my desk, pull out my little travel sewing kit and then sew their button back on. I think sometimes people resented having to call me a master tailor. Some people thought I was just kidding, and they didn't really have to refer to me as a "master tailor" before I'd sew their button on. But I wasn't. They really had to call me that. It was okay too if they called me a "master-bater" (that was actually quite a popular thing to do) as long as they also referred to me also as a "master tailor." I wasn't easy on the way up, though. I think building my reputation as a master tailor was a lot like becoming a tattoo artist. I've read books on how to be a tattoo artist, and first you got to tattoo yourself, then your friends, and only then do people start coming to you for a tattoo. It was like that building my college tailor reputation - at first I’d have to practically demand to sew buttons on for people. Nobody thought I could sew…perhaps it was the general state of disrepair my clothes usually were in. But eventually, after a lot of hard work and dedication, I started to build the kind of reputation where I could demand that people call me a “master tailor.” But about my career as a tattoo artist: I know I’ve been a strong advocate of the self tattoo in the past. I have, in fact, I've used this very web-log as a sort of soap-box in support of the self-tattoo. What if, now, I changed my position? Would you think less of me? Like, what if I started hiring professional tattoo artists to cover up some of my mistakes and to finish up some of my half-completed tattoo projects? One the other hand, what if I didn’t change my position; what if I took off my shirt and I had all this Cape Fear kind of crazy shit all over my body? Would you think less of me then? Like after you saw my tattoos - stuff like "!Reimpowerment!" on a flowing banner stretched across my chest in the beaks of two flight-capable ostriches? What about the smiling deer with big antlers standing erect on his hind legs wearing high-tops and holding a shield that bears the legend: "Glory Irregardless"? Or the Anarchy symbol formed from stylized legumes on my belly? Either revise my position, or the Cape Fear thing - these are my only two options I think. Brian 1:29 AM (0) comments Tuesday, August 17, 2004 Remember in the beginning of that movie, Bladerunner, like when Harrison Ford the robot-hunting protagonist is sitting in a filthy little street-side café eating dirty greasy noodles out of a Styrofoam bowl and it’s late at night and raining and he’s in the middle of a dark and filthy city filled with modernistic human filth and futurist lighted blimp advertisements for futuristic products and crap? And he‘s all sullen and introspective, but at the same time wary and alert with a sense of grim determination about him because he’s supposed to go out and hunt some dangerous robots? That’s what I felt like today. Except I’m not the one hunting the robot. Rather, it’s the ROBOT who’s hunting ME. And also, it was actually pretty balmy here in Chicago today. This robot is a tough customer, too. And you can trust my judgment on this matter. You know I’m no push over. Shit. I mean, just this morning while I was scrambling my usual morning tofu scramble (it’s delicious) some evangelical ladies got all up in my apartment buzzer and they were like, (me pressing listen) “talk [something] you [something] Bible [something],” and I was like, (pressing talk) “I can’t understand you!” and then they were like, (me pressing listen) “talk [something] you [something] Bible [something]!” and then I was like, (pressing talk), “What?” After that they wouldn’t talk anymore when I pressed listen, even though I tried to say “What?” really politely, and over and over again while holding the talk button down. Then I snuck down stairs in my flip flops that my dad gave me to take on my first boy scout camping trip (as he told me, gravely, “son, you’ll need to wear these in the shower”) and I spied on the Bible ladies through the door from the stairwell while they pressed everybody else’s apartment buzzer and said something about the Bible. Then they walked away. That’s right. They walked away! At first I thought the robot was Stephen Hawking having called me to discuss the wonders of the cosmos - seriously, this robot sounds just like him. But this robot didn’t really seem to be into the wonders of the cosmos. All it wants is me to call some guy named “Al.” The robot says I “need” to call this guy named “Al” at some place. The robot indicated that it was very important to “Al” that I call him. “Al” had been trying very hard to reach me. Well, guess what, robot? You can stuff Al’s important message up your robot hole! That’s right, I’m not going to call Al! I didn’t even write Al’s 1-800 number down, even after you gave me time to go get a pen and some paper! You don’t even want to know what I was doing instead of getting pen and paper - it was something a robot can’t do, that’s for sure! Sure, you may have had the upper hand on this call, robot. I‘ll admit that I got a little flustered when you wouldn‘t answer my questions, and you just continued your message unflappably. That showed you had some guts. But I’ve been around the block a few times in this automated world, and you’re not the first robot that’s come after me. One time Blockbuster put robot on my tail for allegedly returning Deliverance a week and a half late. The Blockbuster robot finally caught up to me a little after dinner time. Sure, I eventually returned the movie. But let’s just say that THAT robot never called ME again! Brian 1:30 AM (0) comments Friday, August 13, 2004 If, by chance, you were wondering why I always tuck in my shirt unless, untucked, it doesn’t fall past mid-buttock level. Or, as the case may be, if you were party to the group of ne’er-do-wells and reprobates standing in a group along the Lakeshore Park jogging trail that laughed and pointed at me as I jogged past (I suspect for reason of my having tucked my t-shirt into my shorts in a particularly dorky, unsporting way), then I shall explain to you the reason for my particular manner of dress: it is in accordance with sage advice I received from a girl named Tanya, or Tonya (spelled something like that) that I have followed religiously ever since receiving it. This is the advice I received during the two week “Running Unit” in 7th grade gym glass. By way of necessary background information, during my middle school years running was not my forte. In fact, I was probably the slowest runner in the 7th grade. The two week “Running Unit” consisted of the class repeatedly running the mile for time, and in case you’ve never had the experience, coming in last every time is an acutely embarrassing experience. But running the mile wasn’t just bad at the finish line, by then I‘d be too addled by exertion and oxygen shortage to fully appreciate the horror of my situation. The worst part of running the mile occurred during the first one hundred yards or so, as I watched the glitter-speckled Care Bear decal ironed onto the back of the gym shirt belonging to the slowest girl in class pull steadily ahead of me, and finding, not acceptance, but only scorn in the eyes of Hugs-a-lot Bear as I realized that I would never in a million years catch her - there is no such heart-sinking experience as that in all the world. I believe that on this particular day I ran somewhere around an eighteen minute mile. In fact, I was so slow that the gym teacher forgot I was even running, and by the time I crawled my flushed, sweating body across the finish line, the class had already begun to head back to the locker rooms, crowded in a group around the gym teacher. Somebody pointed out my labored progress, however, and the gym teacher couldn’t refrain from calling out my time for the benefit of all the other students. “18 minutes, 14 seconds!” or something like that, then they all turned and continued walking toward the locker rooms. I trailed behind. Yeah, pretty embarrassing, but then Tanya broke out of the group and waited for me. At the time, I expected derision from her, but it turns out that she had some heart-felt and helpful advice to share with me. “Don’t wear your t-shirt down over your butt like that,” she told me, “because it makes you look like a girl.” Then I tucked my shirt in and we walked together to the locker-rooms area in a friendly silence. I’m not exactly sure if this is entirely true, especially nowadays because, I mean, I’m not really even shaped like a girl. And I display other secondary sexual characteristics that, no matter how feminine wearing a shirt untucked over my butt could be, should allow people to readily characterize me as a male. Regardless, I’ve always valued the friendship that burgeoned between Tanya and myself and so I continue to follow her advice. I never hung out with Tanya after school or anything, or even talked to her between classes, but I think her last name started with an “M” or something because we were usually seated next to each other in the classes that we shared. I remember that she used to turn around in her chair and tell me that she was going to be president of the United States. I don’t remember how we’d get onto the topic, but she said it a couple of times. I always agreed with her, after all, she had a lot of confidence and had gone out of her way to solve one of my problems: knowing that I did not look like a girl, so long as I did not wear a t-shirt over my butt, had been somewhat of a boon to my faltering middle school self-confidence. I don’t think that she fit in very well at school either, although for different reasons than I. I don’t think that Tanya had the opportunity of standard middle-class suburban advantages, (although I didn’t know how to recognize these things at the time) and she was certainly not as sheltered. I remember that during the two week “Swimming Unit,” which consisted mostly of the students treading water in a long line down the side of the pool, one hand on the gutter; as I kicked down in the dark warm chlorine mist next to her (again, the alphabetical thing) some other girls farther down the line started making up juvenile, patty-cake like poems about boys and their newly-discovered affinity for them. Tanya attempted to participate by insisting that they add lyrics containing carnival-strength sexual vulgarities that totally shocked the other girls. Her contribution was not appreciated. It didn’t escape anyone’s attention that Tanya was out-of-place among the suburban milk-calves bred to fill office cubicles with the same consistency as an auto-line or chain store-sold household goods. Tanya was like… like, one of those burros that roam wild on government land, facing all the hazards of the wilderness, like coyotes and poachers and an inconsistent food supply - the burros that the government is always trying to sell for fifty bucks, but because the burros are all wild there’s a danger that people will re-sell them for dog food because the wild burros won‘t submit to the mundane burro tasks that humans usually expect of them (as related to Tanya, the analogy may or may not apply all the way though). What’s worse, her wild burro presence made the milk-calves realize they were milk-calves, and who wants to be a milk-calf? It was in response to this threat that she unintentionally posed, I believe, that somebody fabricated that rumor about her doing something (an accusation I won’t even dignify by repeating here) in American Studies (a class that I didn’t share with her) that got her kicked out of class. One morning Tanya came to class and was slow to turn around and talk to me. When she did, she first talked with her lips over her teeth. Eventually she tired of this and showed me the huge gap in her teeth. She explained that the previous evening her boyfriend and father had gotten liquored up (I’m not sure if together or separately) and were about to start fighting out on the front yard of her father’s house. She ran out to break up the fight just as her father swung a drunken blind haymaker. His fist came out of Tanya’s mouth with shards of front teeth embedded in the knuckle. She made the point of telling me that she didn’t cry when it happened, toughness being really important to her, but she also confessed to me that she really felt self-conscious about the way she looked. She asked me if she looked bad. I said no, but then suggested that she could probably just go home until she could see the dentist, and that for this sort of thing, a dentist would probably get her in sometime during that day. Then she looked at me like I didn’t get it, which I suppose I didn’t - her family moved again and she changed schools a few years later and she still had that gap in her teeth. It was really tragic, because the broken teeth changed her outward personality and stifled some of the outsider’s confidence that I had first admired about her. Maybe she figured she wouldn’t be able to ever make a serious run at the presidency with only 0.5 front teeth. Someday though I hope she still takes a shot at it. I’ll keep my promise and vote for her. The last time I saw her was a few years after she changed schools. I guess she hadn’t moved too far, because I saw her in line at a different school building where all the students of a certain age had to report for a test or a physical or something like some sort of silly and entirely pointless King Herrod-style public school census. She recognized me and grabbed my arm and said, “Hey, aren’t you that kid Brian Morris?” I said that I was and she responded, “I remember you!” I told her that I remembered her also. I’m way better at running now. I run all the time. I just needed some time to get used to exercising my body in a non-gym class environment, sans some judgmental asshole in short, tight, polyester shorts blowing a whistle in my ear repeatedly and shouting about how bad at sports I was. (Yes, I am blaming public school physical education for the sedentary lifestyle I lived in my youth, which I was reviled for among the school authority figures of the day and public health programs, and I have sundry powerful and convincing reasons establishing this causal relationship that I will explain to you, my gentle reader, another day). Regardless, in 7th grade, running just wasn’t my thing, I was more into tropical fish, and D&D, you know, healthy, cool stuff like that - and these are the kind of things you don’t even need legs for, you can do them just as easily in a patented Hover-Round mobility device, which you may qualify under Medicaid to receive with absolutely no cost to you. Brian 3:56 PM (0) comments

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House of Noh!

Thursday, August 19, 2004

I've been hard at work sewing. Sewing what you ask? Sewing big projects for my big trip! I shouldn't brag, really I shouldn’t, but I'm a pretty good sewer. Sometimes some of the older women who work at fabric and craft stores, the really conservative craftresses, (you know the type) get all angry at me and give me shit. Like if I indicate I'm going to sew something with white fabric and red thread, they say mean stuff like, "that would be a good idea... if you want the stitches to show! Dumbass!" What they don't understand in general about my projects is that I sew toward what I envision as my more masculine sewing ideal (lack of attention to detail) - this isn't appreciated in the female dominated sewing world. Also, I don’t think those old craft masters like me in their world. When I was in college I got a reputation for sewing and people would stop by my dorm room and ask me to sew on a button for them or to sew up a tear or something. I would only do it after they formally acknowledged that I was a "master tailor" - I actually made them call me that. Then I would nod my head, all magnaminous-like, reach into my desk, pull out my little travel sewing kit and then sew their button back on. I think sometimes people resented having to call me a master tailor. Some people thought I was just kidding, and they didn't really have to refer to me as a "master tailor" before I'd sew their button on. But I wasn't. They really had to call me that. It was okay too if they called me a "master-bater" (that was actually quite a popular thing to do) as long as they also referred to me also as a "master tailor." I wasn't easy on the way up, though. I think building my reputation as a master tailor was a lot like becoming a tattoo artist. I've read books on how to be a tattoo artist, and first you got to tattoo yourself, then your friends, and only then do people start coming to you for a tattoo. It was like that building my college tailor reputation - at first I’d have to practically demand to sew buttons on for people. Nobody thought I could sew…perhaps it was the general state of disrepair my clothes usually were in. But eventually, after a lot of hard work and dedication, I started to build the kind of reputation where I could demand that people call me a “master tailor.” But about my career as a tattoo artist: I know I’ve been a strong advocate of the self tattoo in the past. I have, in fact, I've used this very web-log as a sort of soap-box in support of the self-tattoo. What if, now, I changed my position? Would you think less of me? Like, what if I started hiring professional tattoo artists to cover up some of my mistakes and to finish up some of my half-completed tattoo projects? One the other hand, what if I didn’t change my position; what if I took off my shirt and I had all this Cape Fear kind of crazy shit all over my body? Would you think less of me then? Like after you saw my tattoos - stuff like "!Reimpowerment!" on a flowing banner stretched across my chest in the beaks of two flight-capable ostriches? What about the smiling deer with big antlers standing erect on his hind legs wearing high-tops and holding a shield that bears the legend: "Glory Irregardless"? Or the Anarchy symbol formed from stylized legumes on my belly? Either revise my position, or the Cape Fear thing - these are my only two options I think.

Brian 1:29 AM (0) comments

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Remember in the beginning of that movie, Bladerunner, like when Harrison Ford the robot-hunting protagonist is sitting in a filthy little street-side café eating dirty greasy noodles out of a Styrofoam bowl and it’s late at night and raining and he’s in the middle of a dark and filthy city filled with modernistic human filth and futurist lighted blimp advertisements for futuristic products and crap? And he‘s all sullen and introspective, but at the same time wary and alert with a sense of grim determination about him because he’s supposed to go out and hunt some dangerous robots? That’s what I felt like today. Except I’m not the one hunting the robot. Rather, it’s the ROBOT who’s hunting ME. And also, it was actually pretty balmy here in Chicago today. This robot is a tough customer, too. And you can trust my judgment on this matter. You know I’m no push over. Shit. I mean, just this morning while I was scrambling my usual morning tofu scramble (it’s delicious) some evangelical ladies got all up in my apartment buzzer and they were like, (me pressing listen) “talk [something] you [something] Bible [something],” and I was like, (pressing talk) “I can’t understand you!” and then they were like, (me pressing listen) “talk [something] you [something] Bible [something]!” and then I was like, (pressing talk), “What?” After that they wouldn’t talk anymore when I pressed listen, even though I tried to say “What?” really politely, and over and over again while holding the talk button down. Then I snuck down stairs in my flip flops that my dad gave me to take on my first boy scout camping trip (as he told me, gravely, “son, you’ll need to wear these in the shower”) and I spied on the Bible ladies through the door from the stairwell while they pressed everybody else’s apartment buzzer and said something about the Bible. Then they walked away. That’s right. They walked away! At first I thought the robot was Stephen Hawking having called me to discuss the wonders of the cosmos - seriously, this robot sounds just like him. But this robot didn’t really seem to be into the wonders of the cosmos. All it wants is me to call some guy named “Al.” The robot says I “need” to call this guy named “Al” at some place. The robot indicated that it was very important to “Al” that I call him. “Al” had been trying very hard to reach me. Well, guess what, robot? You can stuff Al’s important message up your robot hole! That’s right, I’m not going to call Al! I didn’t even write Al’s 1-800 number down, even after you gave me time to go get a pen and some paper! You don’t even want to know what I was doing instead of getting pen and paper - it was something a robot can’t do, that’s for sure! Sure, you may have had the upper hand on this call, robot. I‘ll admit that I got a little flustered when you wouldn‘t answer my questions, and you just continued your message unflappably. That showed you had some guts. But I’ve been around the block a few times in this automated world, and you’re not the first robot that’s come after me. One time Blockbuster put robot on my tail for *allegedly* returning Deliverance a week and a half late. The Blockbuster robot finally caught up to me a little after dinner time. Sure, I eventually returned the movie. But let’s just say that THAT robot never called ME again!

Brian 1:30 AM (0) comments

Friday, August 13, 2004

If, by chance, you were wondering why I always tuck in my shirt unless, untucked, it doesn’t fall past mid-buttock level. Or, as the case may be, if you were party to the group of ne’er-do-wells and reprobates standing in a group along the Lakeshore Park jogging trail that laughed and pointed at me as I jogged past (I suspect for reason of my having tucked my t-shirt into my shorts in a particularly dorky, unsporting way), then I shall explain to you the reason for my particular manner of dress: it is in accordance with sage advice I received from a girl named Tanya, or Tonya (spelled something like that) that I have followed religiously ever since receiving it. This is the advice I received during the two week “Running Unit” in 7th grade gym glass. By way of necessary background information, during my middle school years running was not my forte. In fact, I was probably the slowest runner in the 7th grade. The two week “Running Unit” consisted of the class repeatedly running the mile for time, and in case you’ve never had the experience, coming in last every time is an acutely embarrassing experience. But running the mile wasn’t just bad at the finish line, by then I‘d be too addled by exertion and oxygen shortage to fully appreciate the horror of my situation. The worst part of running the mile occurred during the first one hundred yards or so, as I watched the glitter-speckled Care Bear decal ironed onto the back of the gym shirt belonging to the slowest girl in class pull steadily ahead of me, and finding, not acceptance, but only scorn in the eyes of Hugs-a-lot Bear as I realized that I would never in a million years catch her - there is no such heart-sinking experience as that in all the world. I believe that on this particular day I ran somewhere around an eighteen minute mile. In fact, I was so slow that the gym teacher forgot I was even running, and by the time I crawled my flushed, sweating body across the finish line, the class had already begun to head back to the locker rooms, crowded in a group around the gym teacher. Somebody pointed out my labored progress, however, and the gym teacher couldn’t refrain from calling out my time for the benefit of all the other students. “18 minutes, 14 seconds!” or something like that, then they all turned and continued walking toward the locker rooms. I trailed behind. Yeah, pretty embarrassing, but then Tanya broke out of the group and waited for me. At the time, I expected derision from her, but it turns out that she had some heart-felt and helpful advice to share with me. “Don’t wear your t-shirt down over your butt like that,” she told me, “because it makes you look like a girl.” Then I tucked my shirt in and we walked together to the locker-rooms area in a friendly silence. I’m not exactly sure if this is entirely true, especially nowadays because, I mean, I’m not really even shaped like a girl. And I display other secondary sexual characteristics that, no matter how feminine wearing a shirt untucked over my butt could be, should allow people to readily characterize me as a male. Regardless, I’ve always valued the friendship that burgeoned between Tanya and myself and so I continue to follow her advice. I never hung out with Tanya after school or anything, or even talked to her between classes, but I think her last name started with an “M” or something because we were usually seated next to each other in the classes that we shared. I remember that she used to turn around in her chair and tell me that she was going to be president of the United States. I don’t remember how we’d get onto the topic, but she said it a couple of times. I always agreed with her, after all, she had a lot of confidence and had gone out of her way to solve one of my problems: knowing that I did not look like a girl, so long as I did not wear a t-shirt over my butt, had been somewhat of a boon to my faltering middle school self-confidence. I don’t think that she fit in very well at school either, although for different reasons than I. I don’t think that Tanya had the opportunity of standard middle-class suburban advantages, (although I didn’t know how to recognize these things at the time) and she was certainly not as sheltered. I remember that during the two week “Swimming Unit,” which consisted mostly of the students treading water in a long line down the side of the pool, one hand on the gutter; as I kicked down in the dark warm chlorine mist next to her (again, the alphabetical thing) some other girls farther down the line started making up juvenile, patty-cake like poems about boys and their newly-discovered affinity for them. Tanya attempted to participate by insisting that they add lyrics containing carnival-strength sexual vulgarities that totally shocked the other girls. Her contribution was not appreciated. It didn’t escape anyone’s attention that Tanya was out-of-place among the suburban milk-calves bred to fill office cubicles with the same consistency as an auto-line or chain store-sold household goods. Tanya was like… like, one of those burros that roam wild on government land, facing all the hazards of the wilderness, like coyotes and poachers and an inconsistent food supply - the burros that the government is always trying to sell for fifty bucks, but because the burros are all wild there’s a danger that people will re-sell them for dog food because the wild burros won‘t submit to the mundane burro tasks that humans usually expect of them (as related to Tanya, the analogy may or may not apply all the way though). What’s worse, her wild burro presence made the milk-calves realize they were milk-calves, and who wants to be a milk-calf? It was in response to this threat that she unintentionally posed, I believe, that somebody fabricated that rumor about her doing something (an accusation I won’t even dignify by repeating here) in American Studies (a class that I didn’t share with her) that got her kicked out of class. One morning Tanya came to class and was slow to turn around and talk to me. When she did, she first talked with her lips over her teeth. Eventually she tired of this and showed me the huge gap in her teeth. She explained that the previous evening her boyfriend and father had gotten liquored up (I’m not sure if together or separately) and were about to start fighting out on the front yard of her father’s house. She ran out to break up the fight just as her father swung a drunken blind haymaker. His fist came out of Tanya’s mouth with shards of front teeth embedded in the knuckle. She made the point of telling me that she didn’t cry when it happened, toughness being really important to her, but she also confessed to me that she really felt self-conscious about the way she looked. She asked me if she looked bad. I said no, but then suggested that she could probably just go home until she could see the dentist, and that for this sort of thing, a dentist would probably get her in sometime during that day. Then she looked at me like I didn’t get it, which I suppose I didn’t - her family moved again and she changed schools a few years later and she still had that gap in her teeth. It was really tragic, because the broken teeth changed her outward personality and stifled some of the outsider’s confidence that I had first admired about her. Maybe she figured she wouldn’t be able to ever make a serious run at the presidency with only 0.5 front teeth. Someday though I hope she still takes a shot at it. I’ll keep my promise and vote for her. The last time I saw her was a few years after she changed schools. I guess she hadn’t moved too far, because I saw her in line at a different school building where all the students of a certain age had to report for a test or a physical or something like some sort of silly and entirely pointless King Herrod-style public school census. She recognized me and grabbed my arm and said, “Hey, aren’t you that kid Brian Morris?” I said that I was and she responded, “I remember you!” I told her that I remembered her also. I’m way better at running now. I run all the time. I just needed some time to get used to exercising my body in a non-gym class environment, sans some judgmental asshole in short, tight, polyester shorts blowing a whistle in my ear repeatedly and shouting about how bad at sports I was. (Yes, I am blaming public school physical education for the sedentary lifestyle I lived in my youth, which I was reviled for among the school authority figures of the day and public health programs, and I have sundry powerful and convincing reasons establishing this causal relationship that I will explain to you, my gentle reader, another day). Regardless, in 7th grade, running just wasn’t my thing, I was more into tropical fish, and D&D, you know, healthy, cool stuff like that - and these are the kind of things you don’t even need legs for, you can do them just as easily in a patented Hover-Round mobility device, which you may qualify under Medicaid to receive with absolutely no cost to you.

Brian 3:56 PM (0) comments

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House of Noh!

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Friday, August 13, 2004