I am thinking of you (wond'ring what I should do) // (I'm not much of a) natural dancer

I was going to go drink/draw at the zoo tonight, but $45 is outrageous!

Here's what little I caught of PVG instead:

9:10 PM - Belated berated beret parade: ;________;

9:10 PM - Belated berated beret parade: I missed stram so much ; ;

9:09 PM - legofan94: bees I stopped watching is okay

9:10 PM - Belated berated beret parade: noooooooo

9:11 PM - Belated berated beret parade: why lego

9:11 PM - Belated berated beret parade: this is our heritage as humans

9:11 PM - Belated berated beret parade: people invested time into this

9:11 PM - Belated berated beret parade: for some reason

9:11 PM - Belated berated beret parade: _don't turn awaaaaay_

9:12 PM - Belated berated beret parade: look at that beard

This is all you need to know, and about all I figured out of the plot before the movie GAME was over.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

Yes, she can...but she won't

I know a girl who's a jumpin' bean

The bees' unease // Everything is far away

Yeah.

Also,

Yuuko: Aww the Man bringin me down

Why?

Hey does your room turn into a magical goddamn fairyland at night? Because it should.

(No, it will never be this clean again)

Hey it is time for things about books.

* * * * *

"Reality is a funny thing. There are no defenses against it except madness."

So my friend loaned me this book, and it was fantastic! It's hard to track down, apparently -- she mentioned she'd tried to dig up more information on the author and hadn't had any luck, so I gave it a shot and I struck out too (but I'm really curious now, because it's a great read). There's a tiny blurb at the end of the book, but it's just a fucking tease:

"David W. Elliott was born in New Haven, Connecticut, in 1939. By the age of thirteen he had lived with some fifteen different families. At that time he decided to run away from the first month of the tenth grade and the fifteenth family to see the world. He did.
Mr. Elliott now lives in a small town in New York State about fifty miles north of New York City."

If you (dear whoever-reads-this) can dig up more, then: +1 internets unto thee.

"They should put all the nuts in the world in front of a firing squad, he says.
But who would be left to pull the triggers, I say."

* * * * *

A handsome gent loaned me The Children's Crusade (A Duty-Dance With Death) which was ALSO FANTASTIC.

* * *

          Under morphine, Billy had a dream of giraffes in a garden. The giraffes were following gravel paths, were pausing to munch sugar pears from treetops. Billy was a giraffe, too. He ate a pear. It was a hard one. It fought back against his grinding teeth. It snapped in juicy protest.

          The giraffes accepted Billy as one of their own, as a harmless creature as preposterously specialized as themselves. Two approached him from opposite sides, leaned against him. They had long, muscular upper lips which they could shape like the bells of bugles. They kissed him with these. They were female giraffes--cream and lemon yellow. They had horns like doorknobs. The knobs were covered with velvet.

          Why?

. . .

          Billy Pilgrim opened his eyes in the hospital in Vermont, did not know where he was. Watching him was his son Robert. Robert was wearing the uniform of the famous Green Berets. Robert's hair was short, was wheat-colored bristles. Robert was clean and neat. He was decorated with a Purple Heart and a Silver Star and a Bronze Star with two clusters.

          This was a boy who had flunked out of high school, who had been an alcoholic at sixteen, who had run with a rotten bunch of kids, who had been arrested for tipping over hundreds of tombstones in a Catholic cemetery one time. He was all straightened out now. His posture was wonderful and his shoes were shined and his trousers were pressed, and he was a leader of men.

          "Dad--?"

          Billy Pilgrim closed his eyes again.

. . .

          Robert Kennedy, whose summer home is eight miles from the home I live in all year round, was shot two nights ago. He died last night. So it goes.
          Martin Luther King was shot a month ago. He died, too. So it goes.
          And every day my Government gives me a count of corpses created by military science in Vietnam. So it goes.
          My father died many years ago now--of natural causes. So it goes. He was a sweet man. He was a gun nut, too. He left me his guns. They rust.

* * *

* * * * *

Finally, I picked up The Rapture of the Nerds after foolishly leaving the first Cory Doctorow book I purchased at a bar before I'd finished it (SILLY). RotN is co-authored by one Charles Stross, an author I'm similarly unfamiliar with -- though one of his books caught my eye awhile back because, really, how can you just mosey on by when somebody straight-up titles a book Rule 34? How do you do that

These very fine gents with their hive-minds and gender-swapping and robo-moms and swarms of fucking ants and TOTALLY DESERVED jabs at Comic Sans and stretchy singularity time. Also look at these things!

* * *

          History repeats itself: first as tragedy, then as farce.

. . .

          A dream. Of course it was all a dream. Except she's standing in the middle of an infinite white plain, beneath a sky the color of a high-def video monitor sucking signal from a dead channel (saturated electric blue), and the plain is featureless in all directions save for a black hexagonal mesh grid--a tabletop strategy game for retarded superbeings.

. . . 

Hyperspace bypasses, Vogon poetry, the heat death of the universe: none of these things feature in the extraordinary situation now pertaining to the end of the world as Huw knows it.

Dohohohoho, I see what you've done here you delightful scoundrels. You alright, Mssrs. Cory Doctorow & Charles Stross. You alright.

* * * * *

Pretty EXCELLENT

* * * * *

Ok, that's all for now (work tomorrow and such). I hope y'all having yourselves a lovely & a safe time
drifting through dat spacetime.

ロボわ かわいい よ

ROBO WA KAWAĪ YO

~ ^0^ ~