june 13 2000
the following sentence is so you know know what to expect from today's entry. though the next paragraph is unusually long and self-serving, it will give way to the hijinks and flexcapades that have become de rigeur here at words i manifest. the present sentence is to point out that the preceding sentence marked the first time that i've actually referred to this journal by its proper birth title. the present sentence is to inform you that i have now had enough of this "present sentence" crap and am commencing the actual journal now. now. no, now.
recently i've been besieged by a creeping suspicion of dilettantism. not that i shy away from any sort of jack-of-all-trades characterization, but it's progressing to the point where anything i know can be dismissed as a) "useless"--i.e., only useful in a top-this esoterica contest or some sort of word game that about 0% of 25-year-olds can enjoy without being disparaged by those with a modicum of social aptitude--or 2) such a hopelessly superficial variant of knowlege that to call it expertise would be insulting both to me and the concept of expertise. the whole thing had been coalescing for some time, but it gelled into a blunt instrument of some type and whacked me on the back of the head today while i was working on a series of mini-profiles of prominent industrial designers. after i had tossed off saarinen's and corbusier's names and penned some truly unfortunate phrases, i realized that not only did i not especially know what i was talking about, but i actually had absolutely no idea what i was talking about. for all i know, saarinen is a plastic product that keeps foods fresher longer, yet the writing was vague enough to convince a lay-reader otherwise. at this point, my ego gave a psychic shrug, as if to say to my id, "oh, well. as long as the superego keeps it under control, i don't see any reason to keep you from doing what makes you happy [Ed. Note--"what makes you happy" here is meant to mean "blathering on at length in a most self-satisfied manner"]." thank you, ego, for letting me delude myself...and you!
so. back to proven dot cizzom presents "the first hot-as-goat-balls weekend of the summer, vol. 1." now, when we last left you, dear reader,
i was involved in heated debate as to whether or not the loud popping noises heard directly outside the window were indeed gunshots courtesy of the young thug brigade of brooklyn, lincoln place chapter (est. 1878 by young seamus o'gatclap as a means of terrorizing the growing hasidic community). turns out that they were, because my cultural-safari dangerseeking instincts are never wrong. at this point, the young lady with whom i had been hotly contesting the nature of the sounds left with her three friends, all of whom were equally as young and attractive as she. two of the four asked me if i wanted to go with them to a reggae party. now, if you read this site with half the regularity that you should, you'll know full well that i loves me some reggae. so the answer was: hell yeah, i did. but first i had to rally the troops, who included:
pj, aka assless chaps
steve, the worldly man of bearded mystery
steve's sister and
a long-lost elementary-school friend of hers, whose father happened to be the voice of the
trix bunny
so that was us. we left the party and walked down the street away from the gunshots and toward the other party, which turned out to be the hottest place i have ever been or heard of in my entire life. this includes the d train platform at the 34th street station, the circle of hell housing judas iscariot, and the innards of a hottentot after eating a hothouse flower with hot sauce and washing it down with hot chocolate. it was hot, i tells ya. it was the kind of party where people walk around with big plates of barbecue even though the structural intergrity of the plastic plates is being seriously compromised by the heat and the speakers' vibration which combine to create a tacoma narrows sort of effect on the plate, threatening to spill chicken skins all over one's pants. the kind of party where as soon as the first three notes of a soca tune plays, two hundred people start throwing their little imaginary hand-pistols in the air and the sounds of the resultant sidearm mimicry are enough to completely drown out the music. the kind of party where a bottle of water actually costs $1 because everyone who's too stubborn to pay $4 like at a normal club would pass out from heat exhaustion and seriously fuck with the promoters' chances at throwing another party half as good as this one. the kind of party where even though everyone looks hard as hell they're just there to have a good time and if anyone in the place has any misgivings they're (the misgivings, not the people) about as ill-founded as thanksgiving. and everyone i rolled up in there with and who i figured wouldn't have a great time had a great time, which made it all worth it.
to recap: young seamus o' gatclap. a hottentot after eating a hothouse...oh, forget it. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter