9:15pm :: Jack-o-lanterns. Sure, there's some sort of ancient, traditional meaning there, but there's surely more to them than this. They are a tangible icon of what we believe to be evil, the shadowy face brought to life by a flickering light. The face of the jack-o-lantern is not really evil, as such, but he's a tame evil for a tame fear. The same fear we have when we're on a roller coaster, we can look at the adrenaline, shit in your pants kind of fear but bypass it by knowing that we are still well-inside Maslow's level 1, warm. So many dead people this weekend. Shot, stabbed, eroded. It's not the crime that scares us, it's the nature of it. Senselessness is truly frightening because it breaks out of our boundary of control. The actions of others towards us which are not influenced by us. But whatever.

So many thing undone tonight. Lots of dirty dishes, unsent emails. Must finish. Find myself rushing home to see King of the Hill. Work is especially dull. Indifference makes things only somewhat more interesting. Where is this East China Sea? The number 8 is lucky, while the number 4 is unlucky. Makes little sense in math. Maybe I'll shoot for getting married on April 4, 2004. That'll fuck with some of them. Maybe not. I need more maps. All of the cities and towns in Texas. I just realized that I will never again turn on my furnace. Actually, I only used it for a few months altogether. That little blue flame. But whatever. It's time to read some 16th century poetry. Yellow from time, stale from a developing sense of language. But what about our priorities? Does short-term orientation disable us from enjoying master works, where the plot line does not develop immediately? I think we read because we hear others tell us how great the books are. It's true that great authors know great books. I've always gone by this, and it seems to work. One book leads you to another, and you're most often satisfied with the use of your time. But what does Oprah really know about literature? Why should she start a fad reading of some obscure book she was paid to plug while all of the books mentioned in "The Oranges of Hieranymous Bosch" remain molding on obscure library shelves? Mass appeal is sad, and this is why Canada is not too far away. After all, Vancouver is just over the border, and Montreal will teach you some French. But wait, where is the free turkey and two children Mr. Eisenhower promised me? I believe I also need a wife, and a car, maybe two. This is what forces us to steal: the expectation of the the American Dream. But damn it, I can't get into that now. I can see those dishes, sticking their ugly faces out of the sink right now, STARING AT ME. Surely there is a cheap maid service I can pay in luscious rhymes and bootie-shakin' beats. Otherwise, I fear the ceiling will cave in some sort of massive suction effect. But whatever.

8:05pm :: Ah-ha! A new journal template? Yes yes yes, sir. NOT ONLY THAT, but I now have an optical mouse. I now find myself yelling at the weather man. He needs to just admit that he doesn't have a fucking clue what's going to happen. Sure he has all those computer models, Doppler radar, and a meterological background and education, but these tools have other uses, better uses than telling us a couple of minutes in advance that "it's going to rain." A compulsive gambler in Louisiana. Go figure, right? Although it's father's day this weekend, there's still the need to get out of town. I should have said to my dad: "Hey, let's go to Louisiana, get plastered and gamble our troubles away." There's nothing quite like experiencing the worst three vices in American culture (drinking, gambling, and visiting Louisiana) with your father.

Damn. Dateline NBC just played the intro to Radiohead's "Kid A" under a heart-felt interview with a compulsive gambler's husband. It always surprises me when such god-awful television shows invest in such amazing music. It reassures me that there are still relatively sensible people out there, who know what's going on. There is this minority (who may in fact now be the majority) who remain dormant, subtle, and only expressing true throughts and feelings to their close friends. Soap box issues are discussed at keg parties where they feel uncomfortable and either get drunk, or walk home after failing to convince friends to leave. These people need tv shows. They need to be guest speakers invited onto the McGlaughgin Group and finally tell that pompous bastard off. Maybe we just all need more sedatives.