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ok i'm out

summer's almost over but I've almost got myself a tan

Hiked the Roan Highlands. Things were lookin pretty shitty for a while.




But then I said, "Hey Sky! Turn Blue!" and it kinda did and boy was it beautiful




And then we played frisbee on top o' the mountain



and then we headed home to our boring lives

Coldest day up on the slopes on Saturday. My toes are still numb. The snow was glorious, though.

imagine how mad he must be right now

8 months sober today. About to meet up with my sponsor and finish the 12th step.

A little background: Father rents a garage that I believe was formerly a chop shop (due to its location [in Somerville] and general condition) for his picture framing. It's a rather large space, one that's not fully occupied even with all of his frame stock stored, and he's unable to pay the full rent by himself. As such, he sublets to artists looking for a light industrial space where they can paint with noxious oils, woodwork, or weld. It also allows them to say "I have a studio that's not in my apartment " which, even if it's an eight foot by eight foot segment of a hallway, is very important to artists and art poseurs (which is almost all of them). Recently, since Father is only getting older and I should get used to minor physical exertion before he dies and I find myself unable to get stuck jars open, I've taken to helping him in his labor. It was here that I met Lenore.

Lenore is a very sweet, twenty-something hipsterette with (what I think is) a B cup, an ass of no particular note, and the spacey-est demeanor I've ever encountered. She's Yuna from Final Fantasy X made flesh, and it's seemingly contagious since any conversation with her, no matter your age, gender, or ethnicity, will reduce you to softly mumbling about nothing. Despite this, she's intelligent by female standards and is the only person within Father's little commune who is truly, entirely devoted to her work (it's a shame it resembles a cross between mass produced eighties flower paintings and spirographs). She whistles Camptown Races and Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy while painting, something that I said "sounds like something immediately preceding a murder in a horror movie" at which point she said, "get back to work, Carmen". We do get along quite well though, Lenore and I. I'd like to think she likes me, yesterday she told me I was "the best dressed man in Somerville" (being Somerville my nearest competitor is probably a guy in a Red Sox jersey and a potato sack with leg holes cut in it, but still) and she's named a painting I described as "Felix the Cat violently exploding" Carmen's Cat.

She also has, or had, a minor problem: she was being stalked by a man named Yannis Pangoui (or something like that). Yannis, or "Yanny" as he prefers, is a heavy set, hairy, hunched, and generally vaguely threatening in an alliterative sense (imagine an older, heterosexual, Dark World version of Timtation and you have him). He claims to be in his sixties but is clearly in his forties, says he's worked in a mental hospital (by which I assume he means he was allowed to carry his own cafeteria tray when he was last institutionalized), and sees faces and eyes in Lenore's amorphous art. He likes eyes so much that he gave her a rather creepy drawing of a box adorned with eyes that he made with the proficiency of an untrained fifth grader. He's been coming by at nights when Lenore is there alone in the dark, telling her how talented she is and how much he enjoys her presence. When she isn't there he leaves letters, written in a script as incoherent as mine, recommending artists she should study and detailing the deep spiritual connection he feels between she and he. Lenore doesn't particularly like Yanny.

On Friday Lenore left him a letter at his residence explaining how, while she appreciates his appreciation, she's not ready right now to share her art with the public. On Saturday he left a letter saying that he understood and would leave her alone, something that came as a great relief to dear Lenore. That day she also told me what his address is, quite close to the garage in fact, and a physical description of the building "if you want to see what it looks like". On Sunday I talked to Lenore about how I had an idea or two or how to handle him should he return and suggested she follow my lead if necessary, though we were distracted before I could go into details. On Monday he came back. Luckily, this time I was at the garage.

Yanny knocked on the door to the southern entrance, a vaguely office-ish space of the garage and where Lenore's micro-studio is located. I knew from where he was standing he couldn't see me in the garage so I told Lenore to let him in and play along with what I was about to do before ducking behind a trash can and some large foamboard boxes. She let him in, he greeted her in his decibel too loud, Greek (I think) accented voice, and, after a few moments, I sprung up with a "hi!" startling and almost tripping him. Despite having seen him delivering a letter before I asked Lenore who he was and, upon learning, feigned excitement. I told him how nice it was that Lenore was attracting the admirers her art deserved while positioning myself between he and her and taking her by the waist, a gesture she accepted with only a quick askance glare at me. He asked who I was and I said I was her boyfriend "Carmen Sandriego" (it's much in Lenore's credit that she didn't crack up at this)(yes I said it that way on purpose). Still holding Lenore's waist, I suggested we take a look at Lenore's most recent painting.

He tried to say something, but I cut him off to heap undo praise on Lenore's work, apparently flattering her. He then tried again to say something, but I cut him off and asked why he had returned when Lenore's letter requested privacy, which he had seemed to understand before. He started going on about how he had received a letter from her and held it up which I promptly snatched from his grasp and showed Lenore. It was in a similar deranged, unreadable penmanship to his previous letters, and I handed it back saying that it clearly wasn't her handwriting. I asked her if she had written it and she said no. He said he didn't understand and I accused him of accusing her of lying. I feigned outrage at this.

Now, from my experiences with dealing with crazy people (Baph) I've learned that most of the loonies who are deemed safe enough to walk the streets by the bleeding heart, liberal, socialist, homosexual Massachusetts state government are the kind of crazies that, while unaware of their own mental health deficiencies, are acutely aware of those of others. Thus, they usually react more strongly to someone acting crazier than them than a normal person would. This in mind, I advanced by small, yet rapid and erratic, steps toward him, a maniac grin upon my face, shaking my body in general and my head in particular in a manner similar to my Stickam appearances ( ), though a bit more restrained, invading his personal space and pushing him back. Luckily for me he's about 5'7", putting me at a distinct advantage in a game of physical intimidation that he otherwise had covered. He denied casting any allegations on Lenore and picked up on my suggestion that this was all a big mix up. Advancing still, propelling him over the threshold, I smiled a toothily, eyes almost hidden behind a lattice of tangled blonde locks (when I'm not self-deprecating I describe myself like the Joker if he appeared in Danielle Steele novels), and asked if he would like to stay. He said he was just going, and I said it was nice to meet him, offering a hand he limply shook (I think I strained the muscles in my right hand squeezing his since they still hurt and it's slowing my typing) before returning to Lenore side. As he got on his bicycle and looked back I took Lenore's chin with my hand, directing her lips to mine in an awkward lock that lasted a solid three and a half seconds before she pulled away.

I don't think he'll be returning.

She stared at me quizzically until he was well out of eye and earshot, and even then it was a few seconds before she dissolved into laughter. She asked if I thought he might contact the authorities, but I didn't think the police were going to take a phone call about a "Carmen Sandiego" menacing him seriously. She asked if I had any ideas where that letter came from and I said he probably wrote it himself. She thanked me.

If anyone's wondering, I'm up this late because it took me six hours to write this post. I'd write a paragraph every half hour and every fifteen minutes I'd have to get up and spin in a circle or pace for a bit due to the giddy accomplishment high I'm still riding on.

slowly becoming cousin it





for Jeremiah's mother, in aid of determining whether i, as a white woman, have lips

nevermind kayc is still a dipshit





who the fuck contorts their body mid air into a swastika while skydiving?


this shit has to be on every skinheads bucketlist, swastika your body over the fatherland

last night i went to my yard and stole my new truck and took it for a joyride. i brought it home and picked up my drunk ass parents to take them for a ride. it was a lot of fun, probably the most fun i ever had with them. they were so tickled. my dad's drunk fatass fell out of the truck while he was clumsily climbing down. what a doofus LOL

anyway they took sum pics:


operating big truck


big truck


it's huge i'll try to post a better pic someday i know u guys probably cant wait

god she drives so smooth i'm so excited to be driving her now!! Western Stars