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|Monday, April 7th, 2003|
|I will call you
I went out to this kid's dinner party on Friday at six. He served lots of wine and brandy, just with the dinner, and I got a lot drunker than I intended. Then I found out I had to get up at seven Saturday morning to catch a ride up to Pennsylvania to see my cousins, so I passed out as quickly as possible. I was still fucked, though. I'm really sorry that I didn't call you at nine like we planned. I have to treat you to some falafel now.
|Thursday, January 16th, 2003|
|Friday, January 10th, 2003|
Hey, this is Keelz; its ten o clock on friday, and I'm going to bed. My mom went to Sweden for a month and I am babysitting the family dog, semi-legally. Her place in Hampton, Virginia is deserted, and its a crucial place to hang out - its by the beach, near the clubs and bars of Virginia Beach, and a great place to hang out with dogs. If anyone wants to go to Virginia from tomorrow (Saturday, 11) afternoon until monday afternoon afternoon; call. (301-982-4320). I won't go without homies. Actually, call me anyways. I HAVE LOST YOUR PHONE NUMBERS. The only people whose numbers I have are Sasha Baskine's, Debbie Fromstein's, Dan's my boss's and my parents', because they all left them on the machine. Otherwise, I would have called you.
Other news, from the fishtank and such. The school of neon tetras known as the buds are hurtin'; I know I've lost two, but recently I have only been able to count six at a time. They're going into hiding but I also think something is killing them, either a chemical problem in the tank, or maybe they're getting picked on by something bigger. Peppae the guppy is an idiot, Al and Sue Belsky the other guppies are lethargic. I'm keeping an eye on Genius and Depressed Catfish, as well as Henry David Thoreau, the red-tailed molly - I'm suspicious. BUT, SOMEBODY HAS PRODUCED OFFSPRING! I have no idea whose they are, but they're really cute.
|Saturday, December 28th, 2002|
Does anybody want to travel? I'm looking at New Orleans, Mexico, or London. There are good deals on priceline, but I need buddies with no work or school commitments. Also, my mom is going out of town, and leaving her house all by itself. She lives right near Virginia beach, and I'm going tto ask her permission to use it as sort of a mellow resort. post or call me if anyone has good ideas. phone 301 982 4320
|Tuesday, December 24th, 2002|
I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
No career attracts me.
|Sunday, December 22nd, 2002|
I need to get drunk tonight!
I spent all of Friday writing my Canine Ecologie Spectaculique Masterpiece for Animal Philosophy, and it was costly.
It is a twenty -page paper, with seven pages of figures, comparing the communication and social behavior of wolves and domestic dogs, to the purpose of determining whether the relationship between dog and man should be classified as 'symbiotic' or 'parasitic'. If anyone wants to know, I'll post an edited version. (The one I handed in is too boring - they enforce boredom in science writing. Poetry commits the ultimate evil, according to my teacher - it is AMBIGUOUS. I like him. He's a hard ass, he hates being in the philosophy department and wants to get a second PhD in neurology, so he teaches undergraduates critical biology for upper level philosophy credit, under the guise of 'special topics' classes. I find him very refreshing.)
I had to edit my pre-existing paper (23 pages, a complete mess), find, summarize, and integrate eight more articles, edit the whole thing, write a conclusion, make figures and a cover page, by five o clock on Friday. I was burnt out from five finals on Thursday, sitting down to start, and I saw a heading that I thought should be in caps letters. I didn't want to retype it all, so I tried hitting open-apple/caps lock, to see if they would all turn caps. And my computer spontaneously fried its brains. It started whirring and got alarmingly hot to the touch. So I turned it off, sat down to read hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy while i waited for it to chill out, fell asleep, and woke up at nine-thirty the next morning. Computer was OK, but I had to work on the paper from ten until one am the next morning. Worked through Gabe's party - that sucked.
I was so overwhelmed that I ended the night throwing up fruit punch and bile in the Kinko's parking lot, which was all I had consumed that day, the paper finished and safely tucked away inside the car. I spent yesterday doing nothing more strenuous than playing soccer (and other things) with Dan, and getting my dose of food coloring in the moshpit at the Gwar show. I am bruised. Today I put my finances in order. Sort of. And Christmas shopped.
I NEED TO CHILL, and
I NEED TO GET DRUNK.
NEEEEEDDD TOOO GEEETTTT DRUUUUNNNKKKK!!!!!
quoting toby b: who's with me?
|Monday, December 16th, 2002|
I am writing about Buganda, and I am a little bit nauseous. This is what my book says: Buganda was an African kingdom, at the headwaters of the Nile (top of Lake Victoria) that took up most of the space of present-day Uganda, until the British made it into a Protectorate in 1894. Buganda was given special privileges by the British, for its unusual compliance, and the kingdom was allowed to remain intact within the protectorate, although many of its ruling positions really didn't have any power. When Britain withdrew, Buganda tried to enforce its sovereignity over all of Uganda, and failed. From 1971 until 1985, after Milton Obote, renegade leader-candidate from northern Uganda was deposed, people in Uganda slaughtered each other.
I remember, when I first met Lissandre, before her parents got divorced, her mom, dad, and live-in Ugandan maid/refugee/family friend Justine, told me about some of the stuff that they had tried to do for the country back in 1989-ish when they all lived there. The discussions were so political that I was mostly confused, as I tend to get when discussing politics, but I remember one thing: Lissandre's bookmark.
The book was a Latin textbook, full of mostly Cicero. She had a crumpled photograph marking the page of the homework. I jacked her bookmark, because I thought it might be a stupid picture of her in a bikini, but it was a thatched hut, with five or six rows of human skulls, and a little kid. I asked Lissandre what it was, and she said that the picture was taken to help raise funds for her mother's rehabilitation work in Buganda. The skulls were the remains of the little kid's entire extended family. Maybe he was the only one left.
I don't really know what to make of that. This book I am reading pretty much calls Britain to blame for the slaughter - its artificial boundaries and power vacuum. I can't see how that's entirely true. The Ugandans had at least a little bit of agency, and they all spoke the same language.
I read Nietzche for my final at 8:00 am. He hates Christianity, because it is the morality 'synthesized by the values of the cowardly slave'. 'Will to Power', he says, should be glorified, not villified, because it is natural to life. Well, I've read a decent amount of ecology, and there just isn't anything like the mass slaughter in Buganda naturally occuring in the wild, not amongst one single species - or at least, not often. They compete, sometimes bitterly, kill babies and mates, but not entire aggregates of genetic potential.
My mind likes unity, and so it is disturbed. Are we animals, or are we worse?
|Monday, August 19th, 2002|
|Sunday, August 18th, 2002|
I haven't slept in a very long time, and I'm listening to St. Paul's cathedral tolling. I have only four minutes to make this post. Some of the internet access here is stupidly priced; I put in £1.50 and noew have twelve minutes to type. Lets see. I just figured out what happened to Scarlett's live journal and read all of her entries, and I feel more connected to the world now that I know Scarlett's menu for the past two months. I want to eat the fake chicken from mid-July. I also want to know where Quinn is. I went to Amsterdam with Sammy J and bought a bunch of post cards and stamps, one with a hash-bar 'coffee shop' for Scar and one with some classy red light district whores for Quinn of C otherwise known to her friends as Steak, but then I dropped them in the post office on my way to the off-license (liquor styore) with this polish girl that I work with, all written on and stamped, thinking everything is sound and i'm being a decentr correspondent after all. But polish girl clutches at my arm (she does this, seriously, like a medium having visions, clutches and claws at me while I'm trying to pour a frappucino and more often than not I scream and throw the frappucino blender directly at the queue of customers, and then she looks at me with these huge brown eyes and says some message directly from the underworld like, maybe, 'where are the grande hot cup lids kept, Kell-i?', or 'VODKA!!! I need VODKA!'), and says, 'no addresses, on them.' And she was right. I didn't put addresses on the post cards. British post gets to know about how weed should be legal and how silly I thought all the forlorn men wandering around the red light district looked, too shit-scared to pay fifty euro for a rather nice prostitute, and how fucking high Sam and i both got. We could not find Grande Centraal, and we were one block away. For six hours we wandered the same block of Amsterdam, not talking, just getting freaked out and ducking into restauraunts to eat every now and again.
But I have real, actual news, because most of you all on here actually know my mother. Melody is getting married. She planted this demurely in the middle of a fucking email. 'kay there, mommty. She's marrying Rob the pipe-fitter who we doubt is her intellectual equal but has a very big heart. How weird, though - I was odded out on that one for a while, I'd love to talk to somebody about that who has something to say on it, because I have nothing except, God thats weird, and that seems like its not really enough to cover the subject.
|Friday, June 21st, 2002|
|Keel and Sam's Address
Keely Owens or Sam Janney
c/o Incoming Programmes Dept.
16 Bowling Green Lane
London EC1R OQH
|Tuesday, June 11th, 2002|
|News Update and Question
Okay; anyone who wants to talk to Sammy J via internet: his address is firstname.lastname@example.org. He's a little shy, so you should email him first.
Second of all; I am trying to get a job and a flat. Getting a job is hard, a flat is harder, but its a blast. Anyway, I have no contact information except my hotmail account, which has a pornography-esque feel and is, well, a hotmail account. I WANT TO SET UP AN ACCOUNT ON SOMETHING MORE OFFICIAL, OR GET MY OWN EMAIL SERVER. It would be nice to be keely@Keely.net, or some such. That way, if I need to pretend to be a business, it would be a little bit more believable. If anyone is inspired, let me know.
|Monday, June 10th, 2002|
|Keely's Dream Apartment
Back in the day, every time I wanted to win a band class challenge and Grams (my dad's mother) would drive me home from school, she said she would pray to the lord that my opponent would get a head cold. Well, now I am in London, and I walked around this property near Southwark, almost on the Thames, and I fell in love with it. It has a snowball's chance in hell of being both affordable and available, so I want you all to pray to the Lord for poor Keely . . . . Tabaro Gardens. Keely and Sam want an efficiency in Tabaro Gardens. Amen.
|Saturday, June 8th, 2002|
Quinn or D or somebody- call keel's dad and tell him she made it, if you have time . . . I can't find his email. Poor keel's worried dad.
The iceland airport looks like the lunar surface. Somebody on Icelandair had the bright idea to assign me an aisle seat. Everybody in my row hated me, because I passed out at the very beginning of the flight and morphed into THE LUMP THAT BLOCKS ACCESS TO THE TOILET. I only woke up when the sun was rising over Iceland and I felt like Buzz Aldridge coming down from amphetamines. I was still tired, but the tiredness was spiked with post-coffee off-key hum and weird cramps from sleeping in an airplane seat. Lucky Sam got the window- he still hasn't fully registered his surroundings and their signifigance, we're both too sleepy. They play Ja Rule here, but the pictures of the doritos on the packs make it look like they have no flavoring.
Well, goodnight all.
|Tuesday, June 4th, 2002|
My ersatz, elusive deity, possessor of one leather jacket I have started wearing to collect subliminal messages as to Your grand plan for me and the Sacred Items in the back seat of my Saturn- where do You want me to drop them off? An address, I will leave them wherever you desire. My phone number is 301 231 6313, please send me Word before I depart on my pilgrimage on the 6th,
|Friday, May 31st, 2002|
Hey, all who are in town. Sam and I are leaving for London on June 6. So Toby & Co. are hosting a party at Toby, Josh, Dave, and Liz's house THIS SATURDAY. Everyone is welcome, sam and I will be there all night, and chances are, we will A. want to say goodbye to you, and B., be very busy and otherwise hard to reach. Anyone who comes, I will answer them one question truthfully . . . .
|Tuesday, May 28th, 2002|
LAUREN AND NATE: I have your stuff from the College park house. A computer moniter, a leather jacket, a plethora of papers, and some KniCK KnaCKs. Where do you want them?
SCAR: Can I put down two hundred dollars to visit you in late August? Plane tickets are twitching to be booked.
QUINN: Why do you smell funny all the way from Rockville?
MATT: Where are you? I want to show you a model of a virtual clinic I am trying to make for my boss.
QUINN, FOR REAL: How do I get to Grandma's? Can I call her? (I don't know if I can pick you up before I drop off the couches).
|Friday, May 17th, 2002|
Does anybody who goes to Maryland know how to get to their wam account from their home computer? I don't know why they hide it thus . . .
|Thursday, May 16th, 2002|
Now that Linear Algebra is over, dimensions have gone out of my existence. Huh, Literally. My TA was as hilarious as my professor was round. oh, oh, I wonder what will fill the void. I'm leery of this livejournal still, for anything besides stories and whatnot, but I have a subject I'm curious about, which I think is a good one for you guys because you have a mad broad range of perspectives:
(I can see it already, the ayes and the nays vying against each other . . . I'm for! . . . I'm against! . . . Pardon me I'd like to qualify . . . . SHUT UP SHUT UP gavel gavel slam slam ORDER IN THE HEAD, PLEASE). I don't really need fors and againsts with accompanying explanations (although feel hella free to post such if you are inspired), but I do need something. Thoughts would be nice. Thoughts preferable to musings preferable to opinions.
Oh, fuck it, I need advice. My butt hurts, though, so I gotta go chill in the hammock. Maybe its adjusting to the huge weight off my back now that that math class is over. (my butt)
|Wednesday, May 8th, 2002|
I think I am strongly drawn to girls who identify with Holden Caulfield and boys who do not.