1403

When I emptied my pockets tonight, I had $14.03. This is more change that I really expected and more change than I really need, but I figure I'll need to get some coffee or some such thing before the week is done and I go back to Montreal to start the new semester so I'll find a way to lose it somewhere before I'm gone. I looked up the year 1403 to see if there was something interesting that happened or something that I could talk about but really almost nothing happened in that year, or nothing that really grabbed my attention. I am not the most attentive guy when it comes to history. You'd figure I'd care a bit more and usually I do, but not when it comes to something like this.

So, instead, I'm going to talk about Jazz. I like it, mostly because of Charles Mingus. Jazz talk over.

Next topic. Surely there must be something else in this wide wild empty head of mine. Surely there's something to catch any manner of errant words. Surely there's something beautiful and true up here. I can almost hear the wind in my head, but I can't. There's no wind, and nothing for it to make sound against. I suppose there could be a zen to this emptiness of mind and draining of body, but instead of me feeling at peace and meditative on this state, there's this struggle to get through it, to get to the other side of this dessert of exhaustion or at least make it as far as I can through it, maybe build a fortress to protect me from the sun or the wind or whatever. I don't know, but I feel like this struggle is good, like I need to struggle sometimes.

But now I fear I shall collapse.

Word to Mother

Heidegger thinks that man is driven by technology, not the other way around. That we keep on making bigger and better and smaller and sleeker machines and computers and weapons and ideas not because we want these things, but because they want to be made. I don't understand it entirely, but somehow something beyond man is making man make things. 

But what if I don't take part. Sorry Heidegger but I don't want to play today. I prefer books to screens, records to mp3, typewriters and pencil to the cold, cold rainfall on skylights of keyboard clatter. I want to pound in my words, I want to press that pencil to the paper and rip it. I don't like plastic, I don't like electricity, I don't like gears and wires and pipes and things I don't understand. I guess it's ignorance, I guess it's stupid but I don't like these things. They don't seem honest, they don't seem true, they seem like magic corrupted. They seem like a man-made miracle. I don't want to take part of this inevitable march of technology. 

But you see the inherent hypocrisy of this self-expression, since, after all, I'm writing this on a fancy macbook, I'm sitting in a heated apartment, my food is in a fridge, my shoes were shipped across the planet, I watch DVDs, I torrent, I steal, I'm dishonest I'm dishonest I'm dishonest. 

That's not what I want, this isn't what I want. I just want to be true. 

Heidegger says the pure truth is beautiful. 

I ain't beautiful, Heidegger. I ain't truth. 

Say a prayer for the lovers lost a sea, sailing to her shore.

Is it weird that sometimes I feel like a sailor? I mean, it's not like I'm lost at sea (what the fuck does that even mean? Does it mean you have no basis of knowing where you're going or where you came from and all around is only water and water and water and if you're lucky a friendly whale that'll sing you lullabies? Because shit man I've been feeling like that for so long that I'm pretty sure it's not being lost anymore, it's just life) or that I want to be a sailor (I'm shit at maps and knowing where I'm going and directions and stars and shit like that) but it's like so many sailor elements are manifest in my life that I don't know it seems like it's all significant or maybe none of it is and I'm just trying to unite all these disparate and incongruous facts of my life and day to day existence so that it makes sense. 

I guess I'll list these elements so that it could make something like sense to someone who's not me and not in my head:

- Peacoat with anchor buttons (one re-attached with bright green thread providing what I consider a nice contrast to the blackness of the rest of the coat. I believe it's fading, too, but this might just be a lie or wishful thinking.)

- A predilection for knit sweater, though I don't think this is unique to me alone, doesn't everyone like a nice knit wool sweater? They're so warm and soft and hardy and everyone should have a few. But they feel like they'd be good on the sea, they feel good like that. 

- Greek fisherman's cap: I got it in Cape Cod a few summers back. It's grey and feels warm and keeps out water well, I wore it in a storm a few weeks back and it worked well and good. I know it's a fisherman's cap and not a sailor's cap but both are of the sea after a fashion. 

-Boats. I like boats, though this also seems universal. At my cottage we have an old wooden outboard motor boat and it is the best thing in the world. It is so much fun to drive around and I always feel like I know what I'm doing when I'm out on it. And I can feel the speed of it because there's no windshield or anything. I feel the speed and the wind and the cold and it's heavenly. 

-The Sea: I like the Sea, I like saltwater. And yeah it's not a very common element in my life I still like it. 

- Seagulls. This is a big one because seagulls are everywhere. I know they just gather where there's easy food and that used to be by the sea because of the tides and everything, but they're still seagulls, they still belong to the sea. And I don't know, that feels significant, that there are seagulls everywhere. 

I think I'd actually like being a sailor, come to think of it. Live upon that saltwater, home being a tiny cabin or whatever. I think I'm romanticizing it, but I hope I'm not. It'd be nice to think, for once, that professions are as romantic as they seem. 

OH A(plural) GUESS WHAT IT'S ANSWER QUESTIONS FRIDAY! ft. Gaylander

Hello friends,
Amazingly, through no merit or quality of my own, I have secured another question. For me. To answer. On account of it being Friday.

Hello world, Lee is incapable of writing at his blog on the moment.
so i III will be your host fo' this evening. What. Up.
                                                                                      
Dog(plural), you don't understand, i just discovered the greates! invention of all time.
.
head. - wait for it
phones.
headphones, dog(singular)(apostrophe)(think ZAPPPAAAA)

End Scene.
Swarley.

well cat(plural, if you feel like it. Otherwise, Singular seems mighty fine right now. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!) it appears, that it tastes like rockets. and also that it's Friday. So, lee must answer several questionz in order secure his life.

QUESTION THE FIRST:
Why do good things happen to bad people?

Gaylen says: i speak, with a tongue like humans. don't patronize me. i eat too much food. stop feeding me, i can't hELP myself. seriously kids, what the hell.

guys-guys.gaylen doesn't care, he's a cat! f'real. come on.
freal sounds like a good eaten - centre.

excellent: question ANSwarleied.

QUESTION THE SECOND:
apparently, that was the only question. so i will now ask myself a question:
QUESTION THE FIRST:
dear self, why beird: (b'weird)
from lee-o

i don't know, go ask my MANTEL PIECE.

*you send my mantel piece a long letter concerning the philosophical reasons behind owning or sprouting your own beird,* (b'weirddddooosss)

QUESTION THE THIRD:
which also, question the SECOND!!!


dear abbey:
i told that cup, don't sit
 there
i told that cup, i did
i told that cup, don't you
dare
but dare she did, that kid.
signed,
LHJM (aka, the WEAPON CONCEALER)(aka=an ALIAS.)(Fun fact(Marcus sullivan stylizez) alias is spelled a fuck of a similar way as ALIEN(plural))


MY QUESTION TO THE DIONYSIAN GODS (singular, Dionysius):
RE: WHAT TO DO ABOUT AN `A´ those arrows are pointing at that a, so that you don't miss it, it's right there, jeezies (plural of jeezy, as in, young jeezy. guys, answer me this: QUESTION THE FOURTH (FIFTH OR SIXTH MAYBE IF YOU INCLUDE MY QUESTION TO THE GODS) is/was young Jeezy in G Unit? c'mon. it's killing me). IMBALANCE.

art. fine art.
i would talk to you folks about postmodernism but, i do no(substitute apostrophe)t understand it, therefore i will not.
i will NAUGHT. I did NAUGHT.


link to nirvana: srsly guys. ORLY?!

I hope this is sufficient.

Lee has fallen asleep next to me and I fear there is no way of waking him. shit guys, i think he's actually asleep.

Enjoi.

Love

ALBUM RECOMMENDATION WEDNESDAY.

Okay I don't normally do this but whatever I really like this band. 

They're called Fang Island, the album is called Fang Island, I don't really know that much about them but oh my gosh are they ever good. 

I got the recommendation from a Tumblr of a dude whose comic I read. The dude is Jeph Jacques, the comic is Questionable Content, and it's pretty funny most of the time and most of the time it's also pretty sincere and the art has really evolved and I don't know it's one of those things where sometimes I think I'm reading it more out of loyalty than anything else, but then every so often there's some really funny comic that really blows me out of the water and I laugh and I laugh and you know what Jeph, you're alright.

"Fang Island: Fang Island- HOLY SHIT. Over the top ultrapositivist indie-rock like the Arcade Fire ditched the pretension and turned every amp up to 10. So, so good."

That is his recommendation, and oh my goodness it is pretty spot on.

I am considering buying it, even though I already have it, just so I can support them. I want them to make more music like this, it's really good. 

I got a question today and I'd rather not sleep so fuck waiting for Friday, let's do this up now. 

"getting totally smashed with strangers get really old really fast...... and it can be dangerous... wait, I shouldn't have said that because that might seem attractive somehow. Can you please explore this?"

I was kind of off-put by this question at first, since it's really structured in a weird way. It's really directing my thoughts to a very specific place, but whatever, that's where my thoughts are being directed I guess. 

Okay I am way more tired than I suspected. This may fall apart or turn lucid or turn awesome or something to that effect so either way we win? 

Anonymous Reader, it appears there's a pretty simple solution to your problem: stop getting totally smashed with strangers? I don't know, maybe find some cool dudes or ladies you feel safe around to get totally smashed with? I'm kind of curious why this is even an issue. If it's getting old, if it's not fun anymore, then why are you doing it? Unless you're doing it because it's dangerous, because of that wildcard factor, in which case how would it be getting old? 

Man, I just have a lot of questions here. But ignoring my questions, I actually kind of like drinking with people I don't know that well. I mean, I very rarely get to that totally smashed state, that's just not fun for me, but man it seems to me like one of the best ways to make new friends is to drink with them. That's how I became friends with my old roommates, it was fun. 

And it's awesome because the problems that arise when you're drinking are simultaneously insurmountable and easily solved. "Dude, how're we going to drink all this beer?" "Oh, bro, we managed to drink it all! That calls for another round!" "Man, she's totally into you, go talk to her." "Aww son she's leaving with that other guy, have another beer!" And really nothing brings two people together better than solving problems together. 

But yeah man, getting smashed with strangers doesn't really seem like a good time, especially if they stay strangers throughout the night. 

So, my final advice at this time is: if you don't want to do something, and there's nothing really obligating you to do it other than whatever bullshit social pressures or whatever, then don't do it. 

Problem: SOLVED!

Next mystery. 

I am writing this by candlelight. It's an excersise called ecstatic writing. I was at a lost as to how to do this with a macbook until I realized I can in fact turn off the moniter. This is about letting go of how the brain sees the word, and just writing what yoy  want, training your fingers to pound on the keys your fingers want to pound, not your brain, it's about teaching your fingers their own poetry. for this reason, there are a lot of mistakes, as the fingers never really know precisely where they are on the key. they are running completely on muscle memory to let me know if the keys being hit are the keys that'kk say the write wirds words and what are the right words, what are the wrong words any word can communicate just as much as any other any letter means as much as any other and it's weird because all writing is just symbolilism, because what the hell does a letter mean by itself if i use any other letter what would ut do would ut really change everything that much and yes, of course it would but sometimes that just doesn't make any sense to me, like, why does blank mean something completely different than black, or plank? i mean, it's essenitally the same word, andbut just that one little bit is changef and thwa tht ehel does that mean for everything else? what the hell does that mean about me? can my meaning, my being, my essense, change just because of a typo? or am i who i am because of a typo, because when my story was written down someone accidentally wrote down stutter instead of flutter or some other shit like that? and for a long time now i've sarted to see mistakes as not. or i've started to not regret the. because it seems to me that our mistakes are really what makes us who we are and really what carries us through life, it's always what we don't plan, what we can't plan, that determine where we are and if you start to regret the mistakes that bring you where you are then the next logicl step is to regret who you are and i never want to regret who i am becayse if i regret who i am then who am U? if i start to think of my self and my life as soething worthy of regret, then i don't think i could keep on going, i think i'fd just stop and say fuck it and go home. because that's the only response i think wthat would mean anything.

SHITTY MOVIE SHMONDAY

Okay, I was going to do this yesterday so it'd be shitty movie shunday, which is clever-er than whatever I spat up there, but whatever, let's do this. Also I guess it's tuesday but whatever? I don't really care at this point, because I just sat through 2 hours and 38 minutes of... 

2012. 

The main reason I didn't do this yesterday was because the version we have on disc is from, like, a camcorder in a movie theatre and it was all low quality and shaky and man this is a Roland Emmerich film you better goddamn believe I want to see it in high quality. 

I love Roland Emmerich movies. He did The Day After Tomorrow, and Independence Day, and I'm sure some other movies too but I don't really care. Those two movies are sincerely and completely some of my favourites. I think it might be more for Will Smith fighting aliens and Donnie Darko fighting global warming, though. 

I really had high hopes for this one, though. I love Roland Emmerich, I love John Cusack (High Fidelity is one of my all time favourite movies), and I love Chiwetel Ejiofor (he was in Serenity and Love Actually and shut up I like those movies). The problem with it is 2012. 2012 just pisses me off. The whole theory behind it, all the pseudoscience involved, everything. It annoys me, it's just so sensationalistic and stupid and holy shit what does it matter if the world is going to end or change or whatever in 2 years? It's two years away! You don't know where you'll be in 2 years, and if you start to act like the world is going to end then, then guess what? It will, because you'll have no plans, no hopes, nothing beyond that. You can't shape your life around some vague or specific point in the future, you can't just let your life drop off after that. I'm not saying you need plans, but you need something. What'll happen to all these people who believe in 2012 (if these people actually exist, I don't even know if they do still) after 2012? If they're right, then hey, they're dead or changed or whatever and you can't plan for that, and if they're wrong, they have nothing left, they're just dropped off. 

Anyways, 2012 pisses me off. But what really pisses me off is that this could've been a damned good movie if 2012 wasn't a part of it. I know Roland Emmerich movies subsist on pseudo-science, but the amount here could choke a string theorists (I heard string theory isn't a sound theory, I think I heard it from XKCD). And all that could've been avoided if, I don't know, they didn't try to shoehorn in all the 2012 theories. They could've just made some bullshit theory for why the tectonic plates are going crazy, I don't know man, they could've found a reason. Because if the movie was just about that, earthquakes, volcanoes and tsunamis, then it could've been amazing. If they whittled down the beginning, and a bit of the ending, then I would've loved it. The special effects are sometimes a bit obvious, but they are amazing, and there are some amazing scenes of destruction porn in it. L.A. being destroyed (which I thought already happened in The Day After Tomorrow?) was so fuckin' cool and amazing and oh my goodness I loved it so much. 

And I don't know man, I think I like these movies because, really, it's a clean slate. The characters in this movie are given the chance to start over, no matter who they were before hand. Humanity as a whole has a chance to restart, saving only the best of the previous world, and carrying all the knowledge into a bright future on Africa. It's kind of amazing, and it's awesome to think about. And I don't know it seems like one of those escapist fantasies. I mean, I love the world, but fuck it sometimes I would love to take off with only a few books in my bag and maybe some music. There are just the responsibilities and consequences and friends and love holding me in place. But if all of that was destroyed by solar flares or some shit like that, then I'd be free. 

Bottom line for 2012: I like it, but only the middle bit and then select parts of the end. 

DIALOGUE AND THE TRANSCENDENCE

Madame, here's how it'll go down. I, clutching a mug of green tea close to my chest like the bulletproof idea of open skies, will take you down to the sea, and there you will meet a mermaid. The mermaid, unlike her more vicious cousins, will not devour your soul with a glance and reduce you to a painting of pure lust and suffering. Instead she will breathe the life of the apocalypse through your lips and your eyes will explode into transient candles. 

Sir, dear sir, I must protest. For I do not want to go to the ocean and I do not want to meet a meek mermaid there and I don't want the life of the apocalypse breathed into me and I do not want my eyes to explode into transient candles!

Madame, why not? All you will lose is your earthly sight. You'll light the passages of time. You'll be the solitary flame so delicate and wonderful striking soul into sacred verse of star-crossed maniacs behind candy cane prison bars. You'll burn out. What is more noble and romantic than that?

Sir, please, I would rather retain my eyes. I would miss the earthly sensation far too much. I would miss watching the moon rise over red brick buildings. I would miss staring into the jellyfish tank at the zoo. I would miss glancing over my shoulder at the stranger walking too close behind me in the bad part of town. I would miss my eyes so much, sir, I would miss the Earth. 

I like how I wrote this piece, I was running around my apartment, yelling about definitions and wordplay, then I rushed back to my typewriter and clacked down a few more words and then ran around again to get some tea and it was good. It felt right, it felt natural. And I like what came out. I like the diction, the words, how it looks on a page, and I hope it worked out well. I personally think it did. I personally hope it did. 

I think things are going to get a little bit pretentious here on out, so be warned. Of course, the opening piece is kind of pretentious, too, so I figured if you stuck through that, then you have a pretty good resistance to it. Please don't judge me, I only want to do good. 

The act of creation, which is what I do, I was going to try to be humble and say I'm not creating anything, but I am. I'm not sure if it's good, or pure, or worthy of the word creation. But creation is a strange word, because really everyone creates everything. It's not hard. Make a pot of coffee? Creation. Sharpened a pencil? Creation. Almost all acts are acts of creation. Anyways, the act of creation, and especially the creation of art, which I guess is what I do? I don't know, art is such a stupid word, I don't know what it means, and if people consider my work art then more power to them, but for now I'll use the word because I don't know what the hell else to call it. The act of creating art has really, really, goddamn blurry boundaries. The line between the creator and the creation isn't always noticeable. There are so many pieces that don't make sense unless you know the creator, unless you understand the creator. At the same time, the line between the creator and the world at large is so goddamn blurry. I constantly fluctuate between considering myself a unique snowflake, a social pariah, and part of humanity as a whole because I am here and you are here and he is here and we are all here and if we're all here we're all together and we're altogether humanity and how could I consider myself apart from that? What I do and what you do are the same thing, really, because they are human acts. 

My point is, which has been buried under all this bullshit, is that I honestly am starting to lose the thread where the world ends and I begin and where I end and my writing begins. Does the poem begin when I look at the flower, or did it begin before that in me and the flower just brought it out, like triggering a memory, or does the poem only begin when it exists outside of me, on the page or in my voice or whatever. It is not hard for me to actually, visually see myself as one with the world. I am my chair I am my gloves I am this cup of coffee I am this pavement. This all feels so connected. I feel like I am in a constant flux between the world, myself and poetry. And it's weird, and maybe I'm making too big of a deal of all this, and maybe I'm making too big of a deal about myself but this feels important, this feels significant. 

I can feel walls being torn down. I can feel communication floating in the air. Everything's getting blurry. This feels significant. It all does. It's scary, yeah, it's terrifying. But I can throw in any word there, and holy shit you'll just have to take my word for it. Man am I lying this whole time. I don't think I am, I don't feel I am, but you can't really believe that. You can't really believe me. You can either trust me or you can't. That's all there is. You can trust me when I say I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm in love, I'm angry. There is so much trust here, how could I compromise that? I don't understand how people can commit libel. I don't understand lying. I don't understand hate. I never want to lie. I never want to. 

I'm getting out of here before I get too ridiculous. God bless. Sorry about this. 

I have started to drink a lot of tea. 

This is a recent development. 

Tea and coffee form a dichotomy of hot drinks within in my life. 

They provoke opposing moods, opposing mindsets, opposing desires. 

But they are never in opposition, they never clash, they absorb one another, co-exist in their own nihilation. 

It is beautiful. 

I have created a playlist of autumn songs. 

I am unsure as to why, any song is good when you listen to it on a fall afternoon. 

Any song can fit the mood.

Any song does. 

Cats are wonderful. 

Simply marvellous. 

part3: Delilah. The Moon's name is Delilah :::: from the story "The Relief of Rock at the Side of the Road"

Sorry about the wait. If you were waiting, that is. Longer=more time.

people will, in fact, be dancing in the streets.

ello lee. hello. (I found this written here, it didn't seem like my place to interfere)

Today I walked barefoot. I think I promised my parents I wouldn't do that anymore, and for that, I'm sorry Mom and Dad. I just woke up this morning with my heart bursting poetry, and this doesn't really happen all that often. I woke up with the sun on my face and contemplated how it parkour'd it's way down from heaven, along the clouds, through the trees and red brick buildings of my neighbourhood to wake me with a kiss and a smile. My shower head serenaded me, sang to me, "Hush little baby, don't you cry" like a refugee mother hiding from el policia on a boat, keeping her babe quiet. And I stepped out to get some milk and cereal, wearing shoes, and decided I didn't want to do that today. Today would be a day for poetry and music and barefootedness. I hope that's a good enough reason, mum and dad, I didn't hurt myself this time at least. 

I have hurt myself going barefoot before, I once stepped on some jagged wood on someone's lawn, went straight into my foot. The blood came out and I was far from anyone I knew. I considered hoofing it home but after a few steps in my blood soaked flipflops I decided to call in a miracle instead, and I called my friend who's house I just left. They picked me up, and I got the best care expired pharmaceuticals and pre-med students can give me. For that I was eternally grateful, I don't even have a scar. 

I guess that's the thing about going barefoot, I get hurt. I get cuts and my feet ache and my feet get cold and really it isn't that pleasant of an experience, but I'm never scarred, it's never permanent. And for some reason it makes me feel good, it makes me feel like I know who I am. 

And I guess it makes me feel like I know who I am because it makes me feel like I'm not a nobody, because I'm not a nobody, I'm that kid you saw on the street not wearing shoes even though it's the first day of the year that you could reasonably wear a coat without being a pussy about it, and though his feet must be freezing, when you catch his eye he is inexplicably smiling back, and you look away and get back to your business. And because I don't feel like a nobody, I feel like I can be somebody, and I have no shame in being a somebody. 

I let the music flowing from my iPod flow through my veins, so I can twitch and shake along and smile at the clouds and stop in the middle of the sidewalk to write a poem and laugh out loud to funny things that people say around me, and I catch people staring and they have no shame in staring. I have no shame and they have no shame and where there is no shame there is only pride, there is only heads held high and eyes not afraid of looking at each other and discovering the oceans of the rivers bursting their banks behind eyelids and smiles come a little bit easier to lips and thus kind words and laughter bursts across the streets and you know what man, that's what I want to build where ever I go. Fuck foundations of stone and great fortresses to stand on top of and observe the stars. I want to build block parties where I go, where people bring out their goddamn guitars and sacrilegious sagacious songs of peace and love and all those bullshit Beatles ideals. I want people to be singing in the street. I want people to fall in love under streetlights. I want people to be beautiful again. Beautiful and pure and barefoot. 

Boy howdy that was fun to write. 

Kisses!

Lee

The Relief of Rock at the Side of the Road part 2 :: LAMP-POST

Tuesday's Post.
No Guff
Alter Ego:

I write like little girls play hopscotch

It's so hard to separate a person and their works. So many people, so many good people, so many people worth studying are complete assholes. 

Right now I'm reading Heidegger, and the man is a Nazi. He, quite literally, is a card-carrying member of the National Socialist party. And I'm not reading his politics, I'm reading his philosophy, his metaphysics. 

Okay, fuck it, I was trying to write that, because that's been in my head for a while, and it was building up to this whole thing where I reveal I cannot separate a person and their work, but that's pretty much a given, that's not worth saying. I don't really know what is worth saying. I'm sitting in my room and there is a typewriter in front of me and I have no idea why I'm writing on a laptop and not on this machine sitting in front of me. I respect the machine, so intricate and hardy and delicate, so much more than this toy on my lap. And I just have no idea why I am on this laptop. It feels like the force of my fingers can break the keys. I don't want to dance daintily across the keyboard, you can't write poetry like that, you can't write beauty like that. I want to pound on the typewriter keys like a percussion instrument until my fingers bleed, I want to hit the typewriter with my fighting words, I want to pour anger and resentment and passion into my words and man the medium is the message, macbooks just have no passion to them, they're too dainty. 

I have known for so long, for so long, that you can't write poetry on a computer. I have known this but I still write on a computer. And I don't goddamn know why. 

Okay this is going too far into anger and I don't want to write angry things. It just feels kind of forced now. 

Today it's raining in Montreal. Or it's not even rain, it's a light drizzle. I decided to walk home from class, even though it's, like, 45 minutes and I already paid $14 for a three day pass. I figure I paid that $14 for the freedom to use the metro whenever I want, so I don't really have any obligation to use it. Just because I can do something, doesn't mean I want to at all. That's a stupid way to think, in my humble opinion. Freedom doesn't mean obligation. But yeah, it was raining, and it was so soft and sweet and sad and I was listening to sad songs and I loved it. I felt good, the world was so white and grey and green and it all looked united in these colours. The world had a single intent, and I guess it still does, since it's still wet and miserable outside. 

The mountain was covered in fog, and it was wonderful. It reminded me of the summer when I was trying to hitchhike down a mountain road and there was clouds all around and it was one of the most beautiful mornings. And the mountain looked like that, except it was Westmount, and it's covered in houses and mansions and castles and you couldn't see the top but I knew it was shrouded in fog. And it's great, because the people up there, the people who paid so much and probably did horrible things to get that money to live up there only saw white, they only saw the inside of the cloud, while I could have the mystery of not knowing what was up there. 

And I guess the inside of a cloud is as close to oblivion you can get, and I don't really know what lies these people told themselves so they can be comfortable staring into that. Or maybe they just shut the blinds and turn up the TV. Or maybe I'm completely misrepresenting them, maybe they're good people, who just happen to have money, and just happen to live up there, and the sight of the inside of a cloud is welcome and beautiful to them as it would be to me. Or so I think. I don't know, maybe I'm just lying to make myself feel comfortable staring at that. Maybe I'm just as bad as these people living on top of the mountain, maybe I'm just as bourgeois. After all, I have a place to sleep at night. 

And I don't know if that's a good judge of wealth but if it isn't I don't know what is. I have a place to sleep at night, and I have a few meals a day. And because of this I'm better off than so many other people. 

Okay, this is too socially relevant, moving somewhere else. 

Goddamnit, I just want to write poetry, man. I just want to write beauty, I just want to write with rhythm, with flow, with no intent but to illuminate a darkened place, you know? But for some reason I can't make myself do this. I blame the machine, but that's just blaming, that's just an excuse. I don't know, I feel like if I was a real poet, a true poet, a pure poet, I could sit down anywhere with the capability of making sound, of communicating in any way, and I could write something beautiful. And I guess if that's how I define poetry, then everything is poetry, any communication is poetry. Or any beautiful communication is poetry, and isn't beautiful communication just art? I don't know if I want to be a poet or an artist as they conjure up completely different images to me. For me, for some reason, the epitomal poet is Oscar Wilde (though he didn't really write poetry, or I don't really know his poetry that well), and the epitomal artist is Picasso. And I guess these are just, like, popular images of these titles, and I don't really want to be either one. I mean, I have nothing against either of those dudes, they seem fly as fuck in so many ways, but that's not me, and I don't want it to be. 

I don't like being compared to people. I mean, I know it happens, and sometimes it's pretty flattering, but I don't want to be anyone else. I'm me, I accept this, I embrace it. 

I'm me, I just need to figure out who that is. 

Dear cats, and kittens and cats who wish they were kittens, and kittens who wish they were cats, and puppy-kittens and Gabez, and Gay-Babez, and Gay BLADES (such a horrible music video.) and Gaylens and Alvin,

I cannot tell anyone and everyone and everything enough just how much I totally really fucking love the people who write on this blog. They write about gorgeous things like being lamp posts or the beauty of walking and shit. I try.

No, I don't.

Montréal is a sweet place. I'm looking for a sweet Montréal job. Hook me up.

Furthermore, I have been looking into citizenships and dual citizenships and multiple citizenships and naturalization and all that bullshit. Here's a little TIDBIT of info for you; in some countries, if you try and gain citizenship in another country, they make you renounce your old citizenship. WHACK. I guess they have their reasons. Or they totally don't.

Oil spills = heart attacks = logic = heart ache = sad cat = space travel.

Now, let's just be quiet, one second, please.

Oh, also, guys, I totally love hipsters. That's you, Repus Eel. I dig your ironic lack of facial hair.

Does Lee ever even update this thing anymore? My updates from now on are going to turn into comments.

Double post. Alter Ego recites: --I Wished to the Biggest thing Around--

Oh
Beautiful moon, the precious,
illuminated bottom of a bottle, top of the only lighthouse,
make me a lamp-post.
TALL
and throbbing of magic glow.
Stark on the street
eons below.

Tuesday. Listen Up. A new story.

Alter Ego:
I will try really hard to post on an actual Tuesday next week. JUST watch me. Just so you guys know the schedule. It is SUPPOSED to go like this:

Tuesday: DayMoon

Thursday: Spiny Norman

Saturday: Cyrano's Mustache

And of course, Super Lee blogs whenever the hell he wants.

















Want to see some of my art?
Click that> WHAT OF IT?

Rollerblading. To the max.

Dear Reader,

You may not know this, but what you hold in your hands is explosive.

I am avoiding writing a response to an Emily Dickinson poem and Lee is doing the dishes.

So last night Lee and I tried (and failed) to attend a Young Rival concert, which was balls because I really wanted to see Young Ri

val again. We stayed home and ate nachos and pretended instead, which was also sweet, because we had nachos. And apple pie. And Nirvana the Band. And Norm was there, too (or was he? I can't really remember. srsly, was he?).

Alvin is in O-town rocking that poor, sad city with his obscene, lady-killing presence. He brought a DVD copy of Disney's Robinhood with h

im. So if you live in Ottawa and you're totally itching to see that movie, then hit him up.

Anyways.

Who even reads this? Besides my mother? Mom, why don't you ever comment. It would probably seriously boost Lee's confidence. Try it sometime.

Hyperlink Assault (should be a video game. OR a legitimate like, charge. we're charging you with hyperlink assault. that's probably not the

right wording. Assault by Hyperlink. or something. I just really like the word hyperlink it's like, high-tech and spacey and stuff. I'm hyperlinking you the info as we speak. Hahaha... the word hyperlink is starting to make less and less sense to me. hey, did you know that there is a 100$ fine for not wearing shoes in the Metro? Yeah, crazy. He kept telling me it was an infraction. He also didn't speak a lot of english.)

For now,

For ever,

For better,

For worse,

Four

times Four

is sixteen.

PS. I fucking love Juice:

Tuesday. uhm. We. Have to talk.

I am very Sorry Tuesday. I still love you. I am in love with you, but I don't know. YOu know. I was just so busy. ANd. AND THEN. And then the next day past and I was all sad and down and I missed you. I MISSED YOU. But I don't know, you know? I just don't think that it is working out right now. I uh, think that we have to. um. b. Break. up.
. . . . . . . .
... ... ... ...
...
. . . . .
Nawwww, just kidding. I love you Tuesday.
Hey! Where are you going? Hey! I am sorry.
Okay, enough diiddlliinng around. Here it is.
Alter Ego:

DEPRESSING. LIKE, SUPES DEPRESSING.

Okay, so that whole guest writer thing was kind of a bust. I'm going to get on their asses about that soon. Or maybe this is the way it's meant to be, guest writers sweeping in for a post or two, then disappearing, never to be heard from again. So they can tell their stories, whatever stories those might be, and then are gone, and when you walk down the street, you can look in the eyes of the people walking past, and never know quite for sure if you know their tragic tale, and that doubt is enough to make it real, because even if you don't know their tragic tale specifically, you know they have one, and yeah not all tragedies are the same, but you can still relate, you can still say, "Don't worry, I know, you're broken, I'm broken, let's have a broken party."And then you make out for a while. 

Yeah, anyways, I was holding back on posting because I was waiting for someone else to, so I wouldn't double post and all that jazz. But yeah, I guess it's just you and me again, just like the old day, the good old days, back when there were, like, dinosaurs and shit. Dinosaurs are fuckin' rad. 

Anyways, as you may have noticed, a bunch of the questions I have gotten so far (speaking of which, ask a goddamn question, peoples), just in general, have been about writing, and why I write, and et cetera. And the only real answer I could give was, "because writing is the tits." But apparently that wasn't enough for you people (WHY IS IT NEVER ENOUGH FOR YOU PEOPLE) so you made me repeat that, like, 5 times. 

And I think I kind of understand now why it isn't enough, why that answer doesn't satisfy. I mean, I'm not saying that just doing something because it feels good is a bad reason for doing it. Hell, that's why I do, like, everything I do. Hedonism is the shit. Of course my hedonism seems to be less about crack and alcohol and more about meditation and alcohol, but I digress. The point is I haven't gotten close to the point yet, because the point is that it's cool to just do something because it feels good, but it's also like if I'm in the right mood, I can just as easily and have just as much fun writing about, like, fuckin' flowers and birds as I would writing about domestic abuse or something. And okay that came out wrong but I hope you get the point. I'm not saying I like domestic abuse, and yes that is a hard subject for me to write about both because it's hard to think about and I (thankfully) have no experience with it. I think I was hit once by my parents and that was when I dyed my hair blue without telling them first, and that was more like something I'd do with my friends. What I am saying is that the subject matter of my writing has very little to do with my enjoyment of the actual writing, except that it's funner to think about flowers and bullshit like that than problems in the world. 

And yeah, the world has a lot of problems. That's a given. Everything, or almost everything, is pretty terrible. I mean, we can all do our part to help things out, I'm drinking fair-trade coffee right now, for example. And I'm mostly doing that because the coffee business is scary as hell and it's tasty. But even fair trade coffee is killing us, poisoning us, because of how far it must be shipped and the comparatively low shipment sizes which means that less is on each boat which means more boats are needed which adds carbon emissions and greenhouse gases which'll lead to Greenland splitting apart and sinking and oh god we are all going to die. Being a good person nowadays has become a bit of a Sophie's Choice, because we can either fuck over the third world, or fuck over the environment, and even that's ignoring the problems in our backyards. The pain and poverty and suffering even in places like Montreal is absurd. 

What I'm saying is that the world needs saving. That is a given, that is a presupposition, the world needs a saviour, it needs righteous might, it needs a riot, a cleansing flame, it needs anger and fury that'll be aimed towards destroying all the right things. What I'm also saying is that I don't think I can be a part of that charge. I know people who are political, who are passionate, who care about the problems of the world, who attack homophobes and save the environment, and I agree with them, (how could I not?) and I support them, and I sign their petitions, and I try to help where ever I can, but I was never able to actually join their groups, to discuss these problems, to hold the petition up to other people to sign. And I don't know why, I don't know what sort of fucked up person that makes me that I can't care enough about this, to devote my life to solving these problems, to relieve this suffering. But, for whatever reason, through some fault in my character, I can't, I can't save the world. 

But I realized today in the shower what I can do. I can't save the world, but I can help remind people that the world is worthy of being saved. I don't know man, it's mad easy to see the world, with all it's problems and pain and suffering and say it's past saving, that there's nothing we can do make it beautiful and whole again. But okay I guess that's the point of what I write, in a way? I write about birds and flowers and true love and kittens and magicians because that makes me happy, and because that's part of the world, and the world is awesome and fantastic because it has to be to accommodate such awesome and fantastic things. So yeah I guess that's not why I write, but why I write what I write, or why I will write what I want to write, or maybe this is just another excuse to not actually become politically active. Anyways, the point is, I am not going to save the world, I just want to remind people that the world is worth saving, no matter how broken and wonderful it gets. 

PEACE OUT!

lee

frailty thy name is woman

Okay, I was going to update yesterday but by the time I got home I was really tired and napped instead and yeah sorry about that team.

Anyhoodle! Questions!

1. alright so i read your earlier post about how you'd choose wealth over 'perfect love' or 'perfect happiness' (to simplify it)... but you see... if 'perfect love' is perfect, which implies it's subjective, than indeed your 'perfect love' could have those imperfections and challenges which you so desire, thus making it everything you want. same goes for happiness. so then which do you choose when perfection involves a bit of imperfection, a dose of challenge?

                               -anonymous

Part of me wants to still choose wealth, for the reasons I gave before, but that'd be kind of ignoring the question I guess. So I shall re-examine this one.

The only way the answer could be different, I find, would be if each one is mutually exclusive, that I can choose one and only choose one, and I can never achieve the other two. The way I see this is that since my perfect love and perfect happiness involves (Alvin says hi) the same problems and conflicts any happiness and love has, then no matter how I live my life, as long as I am constantly searching for love and happiness (which I plan on doing no matter what), then I will have my perfect happiness and perfect love. So, unless I can have one and only one, then no matter what, I will have all three if I choose wealth.

And if they are completely exclusive, then wealth is still the only logical answer, because I am stupid enough to completely connect love and happiness in my head. I will never be perfectly happy unless I'm in love and I'll never be perfectly in love unless I'm happy. So those are far too connected to me to choose one without the other, which is what I would have to do. Therefore, I must choose wealth, regardless.

Woo! I reasoned out the same answer even with that change! I'm rad!

2. Okay, so, At the beginning of our school year, one of my teachers made each student in my class write a question on a piece of paper. She said it could be anything we wanted, as long as we didn't already know the answer.

The other day, she randomly assigned all the questions to people, and told us to write a paper in response.

My fucking question is this:

"How many undiscovered places are there in the world?"

HOW THE FUCK DOES ANYONE ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

You're my only hope.

                       -anonymous

Hahaha, oh my lord, that is a dumb question. I mean the question you were asked. It's just a stupid question. It is a question that cannot possibly have an answer. 'Undiscovered' means nothing, really, in and of itself. Does it mean untouched and unseen by humanity? Or undiscovered by the Western World? Or what?

How about 'places'? What does that mean? How big of a place does it have to be to be a place? Is my living room a different place than my kitchen, or are they both under the place heading of my house? It's just vague. Does a place need to be physical, even? Can the mind be a place?

Even "how many" is stupid. Since that implies an exact number, which is impossible to find because if the places are undiscovered, then there is no way of knowing an exact number. I'm sorry but it's just a stupid, stupid, unanswerable question. It's like a koan.

So, here's my answer to the unanswerable question:

There are four undiscovered places. The mind, the soul, the land and the sea.

Okay, that was fun, I'm watching Hamlet, it's tight.

kisses,

Lee

P.S. ASK QUESTION. 

Well, here I am

Yet another guest author joins the ranks of the Hope & Derring-Do writing staff. I'm sure all two of you awesome readers of said blog are shivering with antici.....pation at what crazy, creative, cool, cummerbund-breaking things I'll be talking about but I'm afraid to say that your hopes are probably misplaced. I am a simple 20 year old male of no special importance to the world as of yet so I will not be able to regale you with tales of my many conquests and/or adventures. What I can do for you though, because you are both so excellent in your reading of exceedingly extraordinary, explosively inexplicable, and extremely extrapolated things such as this here blog, I will do what I can to please.

SO ANYWAY.....

I was originally planning on writing an awesome short story for you two but I ended up rearranging my room for a couple hours.....so that plan kinda fell through the floor like a 300 lbs. dude in a bathtub.......but I promise to write one for next Thursday......or at least early Friday morning....like this.

YA

So I'm sick, I'm a horribly mentally deranged paranoid schizophrenic who steals people's rolls of duct tape and I'm completely beyond help and should be put away in an asylum to rot for eternity for my heinous crimes against humanity. Ok, that was a lie, but the sick part was true, and so is duct tape. I caught a cold a couple days ago and I'm only just getting over it. I apologize in advance if anyone gets my cold by reading this post and/or touching this keyboard. I don't even know how I got it.....I remember being out for hours in cold weather and I think I wasn't really dressed for it either.....but I don't see how that could really get me sick....you silly weather man.

Well, the tea helps. Here at the Beautiful People's Society + Norm (also known as Smooch City) we have about 5, 345 tea bags and tea related objects and somewhere in the ballpark of ONE BILLION and two mugs to put the afore mentioned tea into. So basically, all that to say, I'm not really a tea kinda person. It all just taste like hot water to me, but it smells delicious. I tried camomile for the first time since I was a little boy named Christopher Robin in Winnie The Pooh books and it totally knocked me out. I started feeling sleepy and that dastardly tea made me think I could just jump into bed and fall asleep, but little did I know that the horrifying truth would greet me the next morning in the form of my very own face. I had completely forgotten to brush and floss, and I had accidentally left my contacts in so I pretty much looked how I felt, which is to say great....woops, I meant AWFUL AS ALL HELL. So, I'm pretty much going to avoid drinking Camomile for a while but I think I might use it in my totally awesome ninja/spy/lumberjack adventures as a way to knock out guards and such.

ALRIGHTY THEN

If you are starting to wonder why there's a crazy person writing on the blog all of a sudden, that's because IT'S TRUE and I actually judge both of you for not realizing it sooner.

ONWARDS TO BUSINESS TIME

That's right kids, it's time to get a little more serious, which is entirely impossible because I've been WAY TOO SERIOUS up until this point.

I'm currently over 2 months into living here in beautiful Montreal, inside what is literally the best and most affordable apartment 4 people could ever get in the history of cake, and I still haven't found a job. I know, right? That's totally what I was thinking. Well....I don't know if I'd go that far.....geez.

Anywhat, I'm currently looking for employment as a road warrior/total badass a.k.a. a bike messenger. I've been reading up and I have the utmost respect for the people who do the job and I know how much I would love it and how good I would be at it. I don't quite have all the right equipment yet but I know that I could work my way to being an excellent bike courier. I definitely have experience in the area. During the summer of 2008, from early June to September, I worked at a farm supply/animal feed/almost everything you could possibly think of related to farms store which was - and still is - owned by my uncle Thom. That job was a pretty amazing opportunity and I'm quite grateful for it. I used to live in Ottawa see, and this job was out in Metcalfe (which is technically part of Ottawa but the people who live there don't want to be), check it out bro, it's like 26 km away from where I lived and I had to bike it, every day, there in the morning, back in the evening. Ya, I know. Most of the time without a helmet, biking on a rural highway that doesn't have a shoulder and being almost run over by 18 wheelers day in and day out. And in between those epic biking excursions, I worked for 8 & 1/2 hours running the store completely on my own, which included a lot of physical labour for receiving shipments of feed and grains and stuff as well as moving it for the customers, and these bags ranged from 50 - 100 lbs most of the time, and I had to carry - on average - something like 30-50 of them per day as well as doing all the other duties required for running a store. So that was a cool job, at first it was hard as hell and the scrawny little 17 year old I was at the time didn't really know what to do for the first week or two, but once I got the hang of it I was completely autonomous and totally freaking awesome. So I'm used to physical labour and I think I'm still in relatively good shape.....ladies *wink*

And I'm definitely good with the autonomy thing (I would say independence is my middle name, if my middle name wasn't already Total Social Outcast) and I love biking with a passion because of the freedom, the exercise and the fun of it, so why don't I have a job yet? I don't totally know.....well actually I know exactly why....it's because I'm lazy, and I have no drive to succeed....or so I'm led to believe by my room-mates. It's more just that I've been at this "looking for a job" thing for a month or two and I'm getting really tired, somewhat grumpy, and frankly pretty pissed off at not succeeding. I've also been wanting to get more serious about music, acting, writing etc. (basically anything creative I've every dabbled in) since I'm in Montreal which is a great place for that kind of thing but that kind of stuff requires a job to keep you afloat so you can work on you real dreams on the side.

The part that gets me is that I would have had a job back in Ottawa months ago if I had stayed, I never had a problem getting a job there, but now it's been so long and I'm kind of losing hope......and money of course.
Generally, I'm not the guy who has to borrow money , I'm the guy who lends it. I get the feeling that this all might be a sign that I shouldn't be here in the first place, but I am here, I made the decision to move out when I did, I made the decision to go to Montreal with one of my best friends and I can't regret any of that. It would be pointless to dwell on those decisions because whether they were bad or good decisions for me and my future, they got me to where I am today, and I love this apartment, I like having room-mates who I'm slowly getting to know more and more. I have to make the best of this situation or it will fall apart, so I need a job. I just wish it was easier.

THAT'S LIFE

That's what you have to accept sometimes is that you don't end up where you expected, you don't get everything you want or that you need, and you don't always succeed. And frankly, I wouldn't change it, I'm glad to live and grateful for the life I have lived so far, but just like any of the other 6 billion people on this crazy, spinning, blue and green rock floating in space, I'm human.

So Thanks For Reading, If You Did Read All That
And I'll Be Back Next Thursday, Most Likely With Something A Little More Coherent
And Less "Stream Of Consciousness"

I'd Like To Thank Lee, For Allowing Me To Ramble On About Random Stuff On His Blog

'Til Next Time

This has been Norm a.k.a Stormin' Norman a.k.a. Norman Rockwell a.k.a. Sam a.k.a. That Guy Who I Totally Don't Remember Being At That Place Last Week Where We Were All Hanging Out And Having An Awesome Time

HOW DROLL.

I’m pretty bad at segues so I’m just going to split this post into two I guess somewhat related but also strangely incompatible parts. Cool? Cool.

PART I

I am pretty terrible at mornings.

Since I moved to Montreal, I have been blessed with early mornings. Everyday, whether I wanted to or not, I would get up before 9. And this was nice, this was awesome, I’d be up early, make a good breakfast, leisurely shower, several cups of coffee, catch up online, et cetera, before 10:30, and I’d have the rest of the day to do whatever, my minimal responsibilities covered and good.

Which was nice, when I had minimal responsibilities.

But now I’m back in school, and though it’s only, like, the third day, I have already noticed a pattern.

That pattern is that I’m fucking terrible at mornings.

For example, today I left without shoes, just some flip flops jammed in my bag. Not that this is a real problem, shoes are kind of useless and going barefoot is fun and since the perfect storm of Ghost of Corporate Future by Regina Spektor, an episode of Wiretap in which a character expounds (humourously though not insincerely) the wonders of bared feet, and my hippie roommate, I have been going barefoot more and more often over the summer and it’s actually making me dread the snow and ice of winter that I love so much simply because it means I will need to wear shoes or, even worse, socks. The only real problem I had this morning with going barefoot was that I both had to take the metro (which is kind of sticky), and I was going to a Canadian Environmental Studies lecture, which already made me feel like enough of a hippie, thank you very much.

But this is beside the point, that I am pretty shitty at mornings. I keep on leaving without my schedule or my pencil or something stupid and inconsequential and essential like that, and need to go running back to my room from down the street, and maybe wake up my roommates and shit like that. And I know mornings are hard, even with a pot of coffee, and everyone has these problems except for those freaks that are up at 5 or 6 in the morning (I find those people remarkable and also robots), but at the same time, I have the sort of viewpoint that pushes symbolism and epic metaphors upon my daily mishaps.

The most recent metaphor I have decided on for my life is as follows: it’s like how the ceramic makers in China or whatever always purposefully leave one mistake in every teapot or plate they make. The rationale is that when you stop making mistakes is when you stop learning, and when you stop learning, when you’re perfect, then there’s no point in continuing the craft.

The day I have a perfect day, when I do everything perfectly and awesome and I don’t make any mistakes and I’m smooth and wonderful and perfect, is the day I stop learning, is the day I will die. Because, really, and I’ve noticed this more and more since I’ve been back at school, I never want to stop learning. I know it’s a cliché and terrible and I’m a cock for saying it, but it’s the truth, I never want to stop learning. Because learning and schooling and education is the shit, you know? It’s all that and a bag of potato chips. It’s the bee’s knees, the fly’s thighs, the cat’s pajamas, the cat’s meow, it’s rad, it’s happening, it’s with it, it’s got dance, it’s got jazz, it’s got moxie. It moves man! It MOVES.

PART II

I went to see Vampire Weekend last night, at the Metropolis, with Emily. I had only been there once before, to see Gogol Bordello, and I suppose, of the two, Gogol Bordello was the better show.

That being said, I loved the concert, it was awesome and marvelous and I loved almost every part of it. Emily felt differently, “I could’ve just listened to the album, you know?”

I did know, because as much as I loved it, it didn’t really feel like a concert, or it did because there were people on stage with instruments and there was loud music and it was awesome, but at the same time, they didn’t stray that much from their albums. They only played one song I hadn’t heard before, they didn’t do any covers, or anything the audience didn’t expect, they barely talked to the audience, and the audience was barely involved. I actually felt a bit awkward singing along at points.

But whatever, it was a fun concert and when I didn’t feel awkward, I felt awesome, and there’s something about the united front have concerts, the unity of emotion and movement and passion that I can’t help but love. I just wish it was less Vampire Weekend The Music and more Vampire Weekend The Band, if that makes sense. (Which according to the squiggly green lines under half that sentence, doesn’t make sense, grammatically.)

I loved the lighting and stage design though, but I love those things at concerts, they make it so much more of a show than just the music would. I mean, you don’t need good set design to make a good show, some of the best shows I’ve seen have been on shitty stages, or even on tables, in the middle of bars, but I appreciate lighting and stage design, they help set the mood and make things a bit more awesome and rad.

But what I find remarkable about those things is that they’re designed for really only one seat in the house. Vampire Weekend had this chandelier set-up for part of their set, and I know that from the middle of the pit, it would look awesome and symmetrical and cool, but from where we were, it looked a bit like a mess. It was still awesome and whimsical and really cool, but it was aimed, in a way, at only one person. And I think that is beautiful and so romantic and amazing: this whole set-up, this whole plan, this whole scheme, for only one person. And this person isn’t even, as far as they know, the love of their life or anything like that, it’s a complete stranger. And for that complete stranger, this show is perfect.

And it’s kind of life, because the show and lighting and stage design is perfect for one person, it’s perfect for everyone else, too. Like because a little bit of something is perfect, so is everything else. And I’ve started to think like that more and more. Only in a perfect world could perfection exist.

Okay man for some reason I could write so, so much more here but this is already going on for so long but man I still have more to say and hopefully I’ll have more to say the next time I write, but for now I’m just going to say what my next bit was going to be about. This is just going to be a ton more concise.

In my opinion, Vampire Weekend and Scott Pilgrim have made it not cool, but not shameful, to be a hipster. People have referred to me as a hipster, and I didn’t really consider this a bad thing, because Vampire Weekend and Scott Pilgrim are smart and educated and funny and fun and, in my opinion, not bad role models.

Okay.

That’s it.

See you later.

Bye.

KISSES!

Lee.