Bleah

Spent a week at the DMV yesterday (and today). Mm, I love the smell of overwhelming powerlessness in the shadow of faceless bureaucracy. This was a direct result of my birthday, (Touché, Birthday. You win again.) and the car's registration finally expiring.

For those of you not in NY, count yourselves lucky. This place is sick with aforementioned bureaucracy. To get the car registered here, I need a NY driver's license -- nothing else will do. This despite the fact that I was able to keep my VT driver's license in Ohio, even though I had the car registered there. Whatever. I'll get the new license.

However, to get my new driver's license, I need to have my old (still valid) license, PLUS: a birth certificate, a social security card AND two OTHER forms of ID (only one can be a credit card). WTF? Is this a magic driver's license? Does this driver's license give me secret access to heretofore uknown places? Is this why I always have to stand behind the stupid red ropes on Chrystie Street? It's easier to get a goddamn passport. Which I have. Which counted (luckily) for the birth certificate (which, I have no idea where that even is) and the two other forms of ID, but NOT for the SSN card (though the number's right on there). ugh. Then it cost forty fucking five fucking dollars.

THEN I get to register the car. Only I can't, because the car is in both my and Karen's name. And so we need both signatures to transfer the title. In original ink. So the faxed forms I have from her won't work. Again: wtf? Plus we need a picture of Karen's NYC license. Luckily, she's more on the ball than I am, because if she had an out of state license, it would be no dice.

Seriously, it would almost be easier (and cheaper) to drive back to fucking OH and renew the registration in Hamilton. It would certainly take less time.

Because I have too much time on my hands

I am, as of right now, five pages shy of being exactly halfway through Infinite Jest. That's page 485, if you don't want to look it up. It is both amazing, and funny, and nearly impossible to actually read. What's weirder, is that it mentions Syracuse NY several times, and prominently features Tennis (which is something I've been getting into quite a lot, lately) and AA (which is something I know a lot about) and Boston (a city I'm lucky to be pretty familiar with, despite never actually having lived there). And it's scarily accurate about all three of these things. It's also one of the more unbelievable books I've ever read.

Being halfway through, all I can say is it feels worth it just for the accomplishment. It's not at all boring or difficult in any traditional way. DFW uses big words -- sure, and the footnotes are sometimes silly, but not particularly annoying. Not nearly as annoying as you might suspect. Actually, I find that he has certain mannerisms of writing that stick in the head much more, that I'm much more tempted to employ myself, that I find far, far more annoying than the footnotes.

No, what makes this particular book almost impossible to read, I'm just not sure of. I like it, I'm already drawn to the material, but every time I sit down to read a section, I get through about 1/3 of a page and I start to nod off. I drink coffee, I change chairs, I put myself under bright lights -- nothing doing. And I *want* to read this book, god dammit! I *will* finish it! But it's like some kind of marathon. I've been reading it for the better part of the summer now. I've had to read other books in between, just to keep myself going back to it. I'm watching my potential summer reading list shrink because I'm determined to finish this book.

However, it's also funny as hell, and weirdly dated, given that it was only written ten years ago. And weirdly prescient, but only about a few things. There's no internet!

okay, enough. back to reading.d

Memories are made of this

Wow!

I just found this video linking to a trip through lego's secret vault, where they keep a fresh box of every kit they ever made. I was a little skeptical when I touched off the video, figuring it would be a little lame. Then they started showing some of the boxes. It made me eight again! No kidding, this is like nostalgia crack.

Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker (and Tits).

Peace out to you, Mr. Carlin.


Let's hope they don't have censors in heaven.

Cool

So late this morning after about ten to fifteen minutes of what sounds like giant metal canisters rolling across the convenience store of the sky (or "thunder" if you want to be literal), a giant wall of rain marched up the street, knocking branches onto the street and causing little mini floods. Then there was a brief, terrifying succession of the loudest lighting I've ever heard. It did not decimate Syracuse, thankfully. Apparently these storms are called supercells.

Cool.

Ressurecting the Beast

So in the spirit of summer indolence industry, I'm reviving this blog, among others. Actually, I'm mostly working on two other poetry blogs. Mostly, I type my thoughts there, but I may post on this puppy once in a while as well!

whee. Send me a comment.