Obsidian Noise » Page 41

Back from the trip and experiencing the usual mixed feelings. Happy for a shower and loud guitar, but already missing the travel state of mind. Unfortunately, I won’t be describing work trips and things like that on here, even though they’re way more interesting, probably, than the usual.

I will say that everything went well. The feeling of getting important things done is rejuvenating and motivating and it had definitely been too long. Despite some back aches and the occasional stressor, I spent most of the time in a good zone feeling more myself than I have for months and months. Having multiple employers is great because you can pit the strengths and weaknesses of both postions against each other and end up winning, mostly.

Once home, I was disoriented by having so little to do. You know how that is… walk to the fridge, close fridge, walk to the balcony, close balcony door, walk to computer, not want to turn it on, walk back to fridge…

I had already finished all the documentation and wrap-up stuff, finished the follow-up mails and planned the next steps and put it all in writing. And suddenly, there I was with… free time. Real free time.

Two days worth.

I don’t do well with idle time. I get a mild panic from the thought of time passing and then guilt of not having done my best with it and letting it just drain away without purpose. I know you guys know what I mean. We have so little prime time, maybe 30 years at most, so every day matters. It makes you want to goof off less and do more because it’ll all be over soon enough, so why let it go in a haze, phase or daze. Smiles are good. Ecstasy is great but only when experienced in extreme moderation to keep it ecstatic, and the rest of the time is awesome-as-fuck intensity doing good shit. Fuck mediocrity and fuck decadence and pillow life. Since when was decadence a good word? It just makes you shake your head and laugh, before filling with the sort of rage that results in whole fists going through whole bodies.

You know what I mean? Sweat and blood and stay away if you don’t want any of mine to get on you while I do my shit, right?

And so, before I had really planned anything out, suddenly the sleeves were rolled up, shorts were on, furniture was being moved and drop cloths and paint cans were out and popping open. The air took a nice artsy/crafty scent and, with the Falconer discography playing in the background (it’s pretty good except for when it gets show-tuney which is a total turnoff), I went to work.

table top — This used to be a nice natural wood finish. Then I conquered it.

I moved stuff all around and then totally transformed their characteristics. The table shown on the left here used to be semi-rectangular and a dark, polished wood color. See the jumble of stuff in the corner? White standing desk, white stools and white rocking chair frame? That all took about half a can of white enamel paint as a final coat.

WP: Hi there.

OD: Yes?

WP: Hi. So, I’m sitting around, skinning over and I was wondering if you could maybe take me out and use me more?

OD: Well, I love what you’ve done for my previous boring stuff. What the heck! Pick you up in 5.

Aside from paint can taunts, I’m not sure what the urge really is or where it comes from. Is it a desire for uniformity? Is it just that I want everything changed? Does it actually look better all matching?

No idea. It’s probably just the desire to do something. If I had my own house it’d be a new skylight, or vestibule or expanded bathroom. But here in Condoville, whether you own the place (probably next year) or not, creative environmental control is a bit more limited.

But all of that was out of mind. Everything was out of mind and all that was important was what was in hand. A big, bristly, crusty multi-colored old brush, and a giant can of white semi-gloss paint. Let’s go. Table top? Conquered. Pah-shaw. Piece of cake.

The couch frame was a much more intensive job.

The paint wouldn’t stick at all (because I don’t prime, priming is for weaklings)(yes, I’m an idiot) so I had to really slather it on there. It took about four coats and a couple hours. It was very streaky and annoying work, but I was pretty determined to win. I never liked this frame much and the more the color changed, the thicker the white became and the older it made the thing look, the more tolerable it became. I stayed in the fight, though resistance was pretty fierce.

Shoulders sore, eyes stingy, I kept at it. Layer after layer. Submit motherfucker. You have no chance here. You will be completely dominated by my aesthetic ridiculousness.

OK, some of you are already wondering how this was possible with my broken back discs. I know. It would seem unlikely, but, frozen vegetables go a long way. I also held a posture that would have looked completely absurd were there anyone else around, including lying on my side or chest while painting. I did the rungs of the back support while squatting on the bottom frame.

Nearly finished here on the left. Leave the drawers the natural wood color or paint them, too?

I had to think about it. Back to you drawer resisters later. But in the meantime I discovered a MAJOR problem. I looked over at the newly painted round table (NPRT) and realized the height was pretty messed up… and I had no chairs that would make it useable for eating.

The stools, though matching perfectly, are too tall. A seated person would have to slouch over to eat anything, and for broken back discs like mine it would just be impossible anyway.

I had a set of four wrought iron chairs on the balcony that used to go with a glass dining table I got off Craigslist. The glass was always too wide and took up too much space. It served as a sort of weird desktop for a while, not too bad, but in the last half year has been up against a wall.

Anyway, the chairs! I put them next to the NPRT and… nope. (Evidence at right.)

Too short. The table would be at bib level. Good for soup, bad for everything else, especially for feeling like an adult while eating dinner.

Hmmmm.

HMMMMMMM.

Hmmm?

HOLY.

Hmm beeeeeee booooooo badadada lalalala

LALALALALALALALALA

Perfect height. For eating, drinking, writing, reading, chatting… add any other “ing” you like. I tied them on pretty good, so…

BUT WAIT. What the hell is that??

….

This is where too much free time really becomes TOO MUCH free time. Dang, you know, I shouldn’t be left home alone.

Folks, look at the couch. Just look at it.

Look how white it is.

It’s white almost everywhere.

But to the right of it… mmmmmmmm orange.

Orange.

Yep.

You know what’s coming.

What, you don’t think I would…?

Boom?

Yeah. I know.

Panic time.

What the fuck was I thinking? Like I said… I really shouldn’t be left home alone this long. Daaaang.

But since I did the drawers and they kind of stick out now…

Yep.

Racing armrests.

OK, it’s at this point in an intense, meditative, no-mind “Create my environment! Yay!” session that one takes a step back and realizes that they are completely, totally and nearly saturatedly idiotic.

I mean, I knew that already, but having the colorful evidence around is helpful for confirmation.

<sigh>

Well, now I have a mostly orange and white living room. Sort of neat.

But wait… wait wait wait.

What the hell is that over there?

Those straw colored chair things… they’re so… NOT ORANGE.

…

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Yes people. Yes.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Don’t resist. It’s happening.

These things were definitely the hardest to paint. First off, I was nervous about using the Electric Orange™ I grabbed for the shelves and couch frame because it’s sort of glossy and I was worried that it would clump up and maybe not cover the weave very well. So I found a spray paint color called “Pumpkin Orange” made by Krylon which seemed pretty close.

I went out to the balcony and had at it with the first one.

The first coat completely vanished into the straw. It was like it was drinking it, actually. So I did another coat and “sluuuurp”, almost no color change at all. Huh. Weird.

But it needed to be conquered. So I went bananas. An entire full size spray can disappeared into the fibers and the result was what you see in this picture… a sort of orange… like a mixed breed orange/straw (“straorange”… probably just better to call it “Strange”, which it surely is.) Also, it took 24 hours to dry completely, which made me pretty nervous for an entire day.

There’s more. Much more. So much more I don’t even know if I should continue describing.

But to all of you. I don’t really know how to end this post other than by saying it’s been over an hour of writing now and I need to go to bed. Remember one thing: go forth unafraid. Make a mistake and learn from it and paint over it once you know what works. As long as it doesn’t break any hearts or bodies in the process, you’re good. Keep creating.

Be good and you’ll be happier.

Glad to be back, see you tomorrow with answers to your questions about what this is.

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Not back yet. The daily will resume on Monday, January 9th. The first post will be answers to questions you’ve asked. Send them if you have them! duck@obsidiannoise.com

See you soon.

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Cold air,
Cold sleep,
Painful dreams.

Open sky reflecting myself back at myself,
Ruthlessly.

Fists closed,
I come at myself.

Bite down.

Damn it, don’t kill the lesson.

Bite down and eyes closed.

Knock me down,
Motherfucker.

It’s just me here,
As it has always been,
And will always be.

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Last night I went to watch a jazz set at a restaurant. The singer is an old friend and I try to catch her a couple times a year. She gigs out all over town. Her voice is nice. She’s German and when she speaks the accent is thick. But when she sings you’d think she was a bebop American all the way.

I always forget to check the dress requirements before heading to events like these. I dressed normally, but my big black boots, ripped jeans and tshirt didn’t really jive with the place. Here’s a secret shot:

I’d been there before but it was over a year ago. No one said anything, but the old women in their Christmas outfits sure looked my way a lot.

Her set last night was great and she came to sit with me during breaks. Her pianist came over and we chatted for quite a while too and that was great. Grabbed a little of that.

Jazz by duck-1
At the end you can hear him ask if I was a bodybuilder. I hate that shit.

Back to the vocalist, I was at her first public performance, up at the Berklee College of Music in Boston almost exactly 10 years ago. Back then she was in a relationship with a friend of mine from high school. She was a vocals major, he was a jazz guitar major and metal head. For an entire summer I went into their neighborhood almost every weekend. Their other friends, many of whom were gigging musicians, would come over and we’d drink beer and chain smoke and listen to rock and metal and talk in their apartment or out on the stoop. It was raw and true and perfect for that time.

We’d stay up late, often till dawn. Their building was pretty much a dormitory for musicians and I’d crash in their place or in the basement. Nights in the basement were a trip. They had an obscenely powerful stereo system down there and cases and cases of beer and giant bags of pot. It was rat infested and probably an illegal dwelling, making it even better. We’d get brunch late in the afternoon and order Bloody Marys to help with the hangovers. I was counting every penny back then– we all were–and it made it all special. 6-packs from the nearest gas station and the cheapest food we could find.

Art was happening all around and a lot of great stuff came out of it, with kids selling their stuff on the sidewalk. Drawings, CDs, posters, homemade comics and graphic novels. I’d choose that whole scene over NYC’s “art scene” any time. Pretention makes real art impossible, at least as far as I can tell, and that’s all I see around here. A bunch of wannabes who just don’t get it. They like the “scene” for its sake, and they don’t realize it’s made of people trying to make it and fake it. Cool scenes grow the other way around, out of people doing authentic things, expressing themselves, not trying to be seen, but just doing their thing. The problem with NYC and its people is that huge parts–whole communities–are completely artificial.

Anyway, back to the Boston days. I ended up starting a relationship with their third roommate, a pianist, daughter of a jazz piano instructor at the same school. She was pretty and outrageous and when I met her she had spiked hair. She taught me everything I know about sex. She worked part time at a restaurant and would bring us food when she worked weekend nights. On one of those weekends that summer my old college roommate came to town for a visit, and by coincidence another friend was passing through town as well, a girl I knew from a trip to Japan. They both came over to hang out with us and because of the lack of space, they crashed on the roof. They barely knew each other before that night but were together for 4 years afterwards.

Back to the vocalist, every time I catch one of her sets here in the city, I get intense memories from that summer, my last young summer in America. A few months later I left for the developing world and didn’t come back until I had learned a few things.

My friend, the singer’s ex, is now the lead guitarist in a great metal band based in Denver. He’s married to a rocker and they have the cutest baby girl I’ve ever seen. Their third roommate (the person I was with for a while) went on to work at Interscope Records and she got me tickets to some shows that would of have been impossible to see otherwise– like VIP passes to the Life of Agony reunion show. I flew all the way back from China in 2003 just to see it, totally worth it. She later became a counseling psychologist, moved to the south and got married and had a baby and now she’s a triathlete doctor mom. Not what I would have guessed but good for her. The jazz vocalist, the one I went to see last night, came to NYC straight from Boston and took a waitress job while gigging when possible. She’s been doing that for 7 years now, a fixture in jazz clubs around town. About 5 years ago she was diagnosed with blood cancer and she survived it and it’s been in remission since. She tours the EU occasionally. I never know if I should talk about our mutual friend, her ex, when I see her. I talk to him about every other week on the phone.

Last night I mentioned that and it seemed OK, but those things can be tricky.
——————————————

I’m in the lab and no one’s around. Everyone took vacation today to lead into the holiday and I’m the only one who failed to plan anything but a work trip for next week.

I have PT tonight and then I’ll be taking off and probably won’t be able to update for a little while. I’ll be back and will keep it going. Thanks to all of you for following along when you feel like it. This is really for you guys (hi there, mom) and it’s really a simple and beneficial thing for me to keep up with, so I hope you’re enjoying it. When I resume things in a week or two you should find an update every morning and a Noise piece every week. I’m really looking forward to working on it all.

Safe travels to the travelers among you, see you in a week or two.

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PT yesterday evening was different. I loosened up quickly and after about ten minutes I realized there was almost no pain at all. It was an eery feeling, no doubt due to how long it’s been a constant presence in my mind, my life. Having it suddenly gone almost feels like there’s something wrong. It’s the one danger of human adaptability– you can start to “feel” that bad things are good for you– cigarettes, drugs, people, certain kinds of relationships and other bad habits. If you stop, it’s good for you, but it can feel bad for you, like something is missing that shouldn’t be missing.

That’s why it’s important to examine the self on a regular basis, to examine motivations and where they come from in particular instances. Going by “feeling” only is a sure way to end up fucked. It’s the reptilian way to live, literally– the reptilian part of the brain, the hypothalamus. It’s reactionary, thoughtless and stupid, and comprises the full brain of most lower level animals. Eat! Fuck! Run scared! Latch on! Eat! Fuck! Run Scared! Latch on!

At the end of the session the place had really cleared out and the Ice Queen put me on the Dynatron 950 for over 25 minutes (usually it’s 10 minutes at a time). By the time that was over, I felt nearly well. I thought part of the pain relief must have been caused by the electrodes overworking the nerves so they shut off and became numb, or something similar. But the numbness/pain-free feeling lasted for a few hours, making me think it was something much different than numbness, and much better.

Back at home, around 10p I got set up on the floor and fell asleep almost instantly. I tried to listen through a podcast but didn’t last more than a few minutes. I woke up feeling very well. Getting up was easy and there was very little pain when brushing my teeth. Typically there’s something about that angle–leaning slightly over the sink–that is excruciating. But this morning it was mild. I flexed my lower back and could still feel the injury, but when I stopped flexing, I felt pretty good. I think I’m on the final stretch here. But I’ll go easy until I’m sure of it.

I’m in the secret library and no one is around. In the secret library, I’m specifically in my secret office. I’m standing up with the Air on a shelf that’s approximately the right height for typing. The only sounds are my fingers on the keyboard and the quiet ventilation system. It’s always a little dark in here. No windows to the outside.

It’s always warm in in here which is great in the winter, but it keeps me out in the summer unless I’m in shorts. For me, the winter is a great time for writing.

I’m sure there’s a janitor who comes through occasionally and wonders who set up the secret office in the secret library (I have a desk I smuggled in, a lamp, some nicknacks) but so far I’ve been left alone, either on purpose, or because no one knows I’m even working down here. Once you keycard in, there’s no tracker, especially down on the lower levels. I’m a few stories underground. Most of the buildings on this campus go 3-4 stories down (some even lower) and are connected by old tunnels that are now sealed off. Definitely one of the coolest things about the place.

I see the Ice Queen again tomorrow evening and then off for a week. I probably won’t be able to update for about that long, too, just fyi. We’ll see.

Keep your frame.

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Every god is manmade and the one that died yesterday came from a vagina. How unimpressive, Mr. Kim. Of all the ways to mystically and mythically enter the world…

The virgin birth miracle is weak. Any means of creation that doesn’t involve being pressed out of a vagina would beat it. My creation myth would be that I popped out from behind a couch. The rituals that would be used to worship my miraculous couch popping would be so comfortable. People would take to it I’m sure, couches are a big part of America’s Sunday rituals already.

Maybe the virgin birth that the country is about to celebrate should be rewritten to include sacred La-Z-Boys. It’d be another institutional ritual I could make fun of and channel hatred at.

Hey, it has to go somewhere. People like me evolved this way. It’s in our genes. You know we’re valuable. We hate so you don’t have to. Be thankful. Now, how do you explain yourself?

That’s right, you’re our food. Now, stop squirming.

I had the extremely unpleasant experience of going through the new (2011) Morbid Angel record Tuesday afternoon. My good god damn is it bad. WHAT HAPPENED TO THOSE GUYS? That kind of de-evolution is as depressing as it gets. Don’t even bother checking it out to see what’s so wrong about it, it’ll wreck you for weeks. I’m protecting you by telling you about it, and by telling you not to verify it. Because I care.

Morbid Angel has always had a rabid following and deservedly so. They are the fathers of Death Metal. Their “Alters of Madness”(1989) release was one of the first records in that genre I ever heard and it was completely transfixing. I first heard it a few years after its release when I was in junior high. It was pounded into my brain through a college radio station I barely picked up from rural New Hampshire. There was an extreme metal show that came on some nights after 1-2am, often through static so severe I could barely hear anything. But the interference added to the mystique, especially out in the woods.

I will always revere Morbid Angel, they were a mystical presence in All Night New Hampshire Adolescent Bedroom (ANNHAB). But this last release, Illud Divinum Insanus, is total garbage.

There are some bands who never lose it and I stick with them, for the most part. One of the best of the best shows I’ve ever been to was a band that formed in 1990, broke up in 1995 as soon as they became renown, did a US tour in 2008 somewhat out of the blue which I was able to see. They’re called At The Gates. The tour wasn’t to promote anything. No new record, no band reunion, nothing. It was just to play again. Being in that crowd was a highlight of my NYC years. The crowd, small put packed for the venue, knew every word to every song and it was the first time at a death metal show that I couldn’t hear the vocalist because of how loud and accurate the crowd was. Here, this is the show I was at, you can probably see me in there somewhere on the right side.

The first “GO!!” was so intense, man. Watch those first few second again. The crowd was simply ravenous for this fix, me included and I’ll never forget it. Watch the video. Listen to it! The breakdown at 1:40 doesn’t pick up well in the recording but you can’t not move to that. The second highlight is at 2:16, absolutely make sure you hit it. Nothing but heart there. I’ll send the song in 320 to anyone who writes me (duck@obsidiannoise.com). Listen to the song and follow the lyrics and tell me you don’t get pumped as hell:

Never again
On your forcefed illusions to choke
You feed off my pain
Feed off my life

[Chorus:]
There won’t be another dawn
We will reap as we have sown

Always the same
My tired eyes have seen enough
Of all your lies
My hate is blind

[Chorus:]

Slaughter of the soul
Suicidal final art
Children – born of sin
Tear your soul apart

Never again
My tired eyes have seen enough
Of all your lies
My hate is blind

[Chorus:]

Slaughter of the soul
Suicidal final art
Children – born of sin
Tear your soul apart

‘Men must attempt to develop
in themselves and their children
liberation from the sense of self
…men must be free from
boundaries, patterns and
consistencies in order to be free
to think, feel and create in new ways’

———————————-

Packed day today and I wouldn’t have it any other way, especially after a quick reunion with At The Gates. Time to leave craters in my world, like At The Gates did in theirs and mine and anyone who listened. The dead god Kim’s craters were only in his conscience and the land of the people he starved to death for his bomb. He got his bomb and a million skeletons. When I see the fat face of the new “dear one” I convulse with inner violence. If I didn’t have my tunes and my fights, you’d see a path of dumb motherfucker fascist cunts kicked completely in half wherever I found them.

Starved for PT. Off days are tough.

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Assume “The Position of Relief,” up on the elbows, leaning backwards, arching deeply, feeling the disc move away from the nerve root. Feel it move away from the nerve roooooot, awaaaaay.

PT this afternoon was good but I felt a new sort of pain above the broken disc. It was sharper and very specifically located. It began when the Ice Queen started me on press-ups, the normal warm up for for the rest of the exercises. I just wasn’t very loose, couldn’t even lock my elbows out, and as I tried to unclench and get going, the new dig slowly began to manifest. It really limited what I could do today. I could tell IQ was concerned but didn’t want me to know. She said not to worry about it because it could be from muscle fatigue and not the disc, or some other temporary inflammation and not the disc, but I don’t know about that. I wonder if my frozen PT at the jungle gym yesterday was too much. Goddamn. Do a few sets of pull-ups and watch your discs explode their jelly all up against your nerve roots. What a great design.

Cleaning service coming early tomorrow. She’s a referral from my neighbors. This is the second attempt to get the place straightened out a bit. The first was a disaster, a sham from Groupon. A cleaner showed up and quickly made it clear she’d never cleaned anything in her life. It was weird and uncomfortable and awful to have been there, unsure of what to do– to say aloud “hey, you’re not doing that right!” or to just do it all again afterwards myself.

Or just do nothing at all, which is what I did.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be OK having a cleaning service, it never felt right with me. But for right now I’m determined to do a pre-winter deep dive into the nooks and crannies especially since it’s never been done in this place. I just don’t know how. I’m hoping tomorrow’s session will be part tutelage so I can get a handle on these things myself. But who knows, maybe cleaners don’t want you to know that stuff so you’ll depend on them. Like how a doctor sometimes won’t even describe what they’re doing as they do it, and how they make you go back in to get stitches removed instead of just showing you where to snip.

It’d be easier to keep everything clean if I got rid of all of my furniture and went strictly utilitarian again. I miss those days, about two years ago, in this place. It makes for a strange setting in which to hang out with friends, but a great place to get stuff done. A small desk in the middle of a big, empty room. That’s the ideal for me when it comes to hard, solitary work, my favorite kind.

Time to hit the floor. Tonight I’ve taped the ground pad down so I don’t have a repeat of the dust cave incident. The sleep audio tonight is Hibria, Brazilian power metal. Their album Defying the Rules is hilarious and excellent. It’s a concept album telling a story about a dystopian future where a world government is destroying the last of the free people and a guy named Lord Steel and a helper named Ripper battle against the oppressive power to free mankind… mostly on their motorcycles and with bats and swords.

Fuck yeah!

I dare you to listen to this (below) until you reach the chorus, follow along with the lyrics below, and *not* be singing it to yourself for the rest of the day today.

I guarantee your day will be happier.

“He is the Steel Lord on Wheels!
Up coming stranger!
With guts to make it
He is the Steel Lord on Wheels!
Defying the power!
Lord on Wheels
Steel Lord on Wheels!”

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58 days since the injury. I wake up with less pain when I sleep on the floor than when I sleep on the bed or couch, but there are major drawbacks. For example, this morning I woke up with my head and torso completely under the bed, dust bunnies in my face, completely disoriented. And shivering. I slid out and found my blanket and ground pad about a meter away. I’m stuffed up now, but I think it’s from sleeping with my head in a dust cave (rather than being too cold). I awoke eye-to-eye with my long lost headphones, which was great. They were eloping with my long lost USB key.

I got to my feet feeling pretty well. Mornings from the bed are stiff and slow, mornings from the floor are quick and fluid, leaving me with few bedding options that require any deliberation.

I am, however, thinking of ditching my bed completely and going dojo style again. Maybe with tatami mats down, or a slightly raised sleeping platform.

Tatami is comfortable but extremely hard. It’s also hygienic and easy to clean. The tatami panels can be replaced yearly. If I did it, I’d do the whole bedroom floor. No shoes allowed. Maybe no street clothes allowed in the entire room. That’d be a great policy depending on who’s invited over.

As soon as I brushed up, and still shivering, I grabbed my hoody and did PT down on the water and froze my ass off. The sun wasn’t high enough to really coat me and I was blasted by ocean breezes coming off the Hudson. It went well, though. I finished with pull-ups and dips at the little jungle gym in front of a massive housing project between my place and the river. There was no one around, just me huffing out reps in an abandoned world. I’m feeling stronger, but by the last few reps I could feel the broken disc start to get hot, maybe getting too loose, and I stopped. Since I can’t hit the heavy bag or other people (under threat of punishment by the Ice Queen) I’m starting to do basic calisthenics and it really lifts the mood.

I can do calisthenics indefinitely so it’s tough to stop or know when to stop. If I could I’d do them for hours, until I get to the state that completes me, the state of total depletion. When you have nothing left but pain and recovery, you know you can only crash and grow. That’s the greatest state of being. It’s all I ever want, and all I ever want to feel. Fuck everything else.

The broken disc pain is highly localized now, but my left butt twitches occasionally, like a horse’s when a fly lands on it. I sure hope that doesn’t last.

Tonight I was invited to a board meeting for my building and officially became a voting board member. The two old women who run the building fought each other all night long and I was frustrated. Both just went on and on, bickering about stupid shit. One wanted more recognition for her efforts to do stuff no one wants her to do. The other was an expert at getting a rise out of the other one.

Afterwards, my neighbor (and board member) came over and asked if I wanted to debrief for a bit with her and her husband. I headed over and before I knew it the vodka was flowing and cigarettes were being sucked down. I barely touched either but the two of them got wasted. The conversation was excellent. I stayed there for 4 hours and we talked. I had no idea my neighbor was so interesting and feel bad about not having gone over in previous days. Her husband is a special advisor to the UN on Afghanistan. He and I come from very similar academic backgrounds and the conversation was easy and pleasant, I could have stayed for hours. I sipped my drinks slowly and I’m pretty sure they didn’t notice they’d had 3 for every one of mine.

Traveling next week for work and I can’t wait to get out of here. I’ll be 10 hours away by air. I’m so ready for adventure and distance between myself and everything. My broken disc will be a risky liability but the desperation to leave makes it more than worth it.

New Noise up– sometimes the Soundcloud embeds take a few seconds to appear so give it a chance if you’re up for it.

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A pretty decent write-up about Hitch. I’m sure there will be many in all the Sunday editions, but I’ll put it behind me with this one, plus one quote:

“But if one needed any proof of Hitchens’ impact and far-reaching respect, the Atlantic’s Nicholas Jackson has it: The New York Times changed its front page well into the night to put Hitchens’ obituary on it.

“That is, the most influential newspaper in the world has put its work and printing process on hold to make room on the front page for the obituary of a single man. If that isn’t a testament to his work, I don’t know what is.”

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