Last Week With My Love

Tiny threads hem the day,
the day is punctured by small needles.
On the tenth morning with rain
every leg sinew pulls easier
with the first light’s stretches.
Bedroom exercise hems the day,
the mirror looking, the scarf tying.

At breakfast the friend pushes down his head
with his chin in solemn greeting.
The politeness is a little less than old butter.
He enters tea through the red cup,
the red cup is beautiful.
The walk outside together is a little less solemn,
a little more than cold eggs.

Tiny threads hem the day,
the little toenails on the sidewalk.
The black dog is very kind,
she nuzzles him, he misses dogs.
And the tenth day of rain has sent the grass
to partying, all the boots say,
all the roots know.

It’s why the rain is sweet against the panes,
sweeter still than sweets to help with work,
little round candies in a tin,
small glances to the window and tugs on damp bangs,
the tiny threads that hem the day,
the day punctured by small needles.

He turns the pages softly,
no one, not now, can hear it done.
The stacks of bands of red and yellow
are solid blocks against the time,
the time that goes in rivers now,
the torn edges in our time.

My lips are too big to play trumpet
you said
and when I mentioned it to my friend
she said good now he knows.
You can mention them.

Carl Sandburg always wrote with elegant toughness
about the inside of my skull
where all the world is projected so
brilliant, dusky, intense,
nothing special, every moment
now this one
encased in gold or pollen or ghosts.

Your mouth gives the symphony
another tuba.
You have eyes that crinkle
a nose that is hard to draw straight-on
honey hair and one day you say
you will be bald.

Great men and women from time get things done.
They notice the brilliant sky,
the corners of smiles,
the paper bag puffing at twilight over sixth story windows
and take beauty for breakfast and still
read the paper.

Once the beauty was enough tragic and wondrous
to be my reason to live. Play brass more,
be the face I look to first thing.

This is incomplete and not going anywhere in particular.

Malls, smokestacks and temples
all of them twirling up toward heaven
be it in cars or carbon or arms outstretched
New Jersey in the March dusk, cold and hopeful
New Jersey in the spring winds.
Checking the Hudson River forecast
to cross to Manhattan, the ferry at age 7
bored and smelling awful, to Ellis Island
where we touch like everyone else
the names carved in stone, and change our names
and feel even more divided in the pride
of being Irish, for we are not Irish,
or Italian, for we are not Italian,
but dad's name is nonetheless there,
fresh cut for 1980, a year of cuttlefish and business
and trips to buy coffee and ketchup at the supermarket.
Trips there in the car, a white Honda with rust
and a plush blue interior smelling of chicken nuggets
that the adopted blind epileptic poodle near chokes on
and is parked between the fat shimmering black
minivan and truck on either side
so we go in and buy frozen broccoli which I eat
until I am old enough to move on to uncooked pasta.
New Jersey in a fog of fertilizer in August ozone
New Jersey in crystal thunder storms
that rock me back and forth in front of my screen window
and I can smell electricity, metal and spiders
scurrying invisible on the opposite wall.
Huge spiders with egg cases the size of mothballs
that Ma and I catapult off the window with a spoon.
Tomatoes with salt on the dinner table
which when 7 I refused to eat
for their texture, but which now taste red July.
Watermelon at the farmer's stand, Jersey corn
yellow and full of butter, and the black three-legged dog
that lies between the pumpkins and the gourds
and the pink carnations smelling of gold pellets
and the fig preserves and the hot vinegar brine of the peppers
all depending on the season clearly.
I walked out into the pansy field and picked good purple ones.
New Jersey in the swill of August kisses
New Jersey in the park with scraped knee and a bike.
This summer Ma and I pull over off Route 22
where we are to buy sneakers and give a dollar to the man
in the Doo-Wop Doggie truck for a cold root beer.
In the winter sometimes it rains and sometimes it snows.
Christmas Eve I walk through a silent night
of snow and tree canopies, bent with wet white weight
and red holly berries encased in the glass of ice.
Hail stsorms and flea markets and dentist offices
where the bubble gum fluoride is vile.
The diner at any time on any day for any meal
and the used book sale at the library that always
smells the same, the two somehow intertwined
like tea and black coffee, matzo ball soup
and the plate of bright pink cookies by the cash register.
The tennis courts with their thick yellow cracks
yellow from the grass that puts its roots there and then dies.
New Jersey in the suffocating mist of summer soccer games
New Jersey in the cicada night.
Every 17 years or so the green jeweled horrors emerge
and beat themselves to death on window shields and sneakers.
I take their discarded orange skeletons
from the oak tree in the yard and snag their hollow legs
on the sweaters of my mother.


-Then at 2 a.m.

Then at 2 a.m. we danced sans clothes
with the electric strings of stars glowing into the room
and the windows thrown open
with a swish and a stop
to the good old rain.

Waltzed then we rocked
against the pastel fog
which caught up all the city lights
and trapped it outside the windows
so 2 a.m. glowed eerie and solid.

Spun our hands into each other's
and shook our heads and our hips
and in the dark night and the star lights
we were exactly Matisse's dancers
just ripples of bodies
and rhythms of bodies.

Too hot we pushed the hair
off our faces and it stood on end
and we stuck our salty torsos into the night
to catch the cool, the wet.


- Standard breast height of a German woodsman and other things lately I've been thinking about

In the bathroom in the morning the wind pulls itself across the windows and shakes them in their sockets.
The quad makes a vacuum for the movement of air.
I stand in front of the mirror and am slightly green with the tile.
I listen to the wind. It howls.

In the evening we get down. Make a skyscraper out of Skyy bottles and lean our weight on each other's backs.
Do the shimmy down. East Coast to West Coast. LA to New York.

There is the calm in the morning that brings back that natural exhilaration.
The wind can do a thing like that.
I stand in the middle of the bathroom and I have a lot to do.
I have to read about the return of manual work and physical connection to architecture.

In my sleep I feel the wood in my palms.
I feel the nails and the glass and the corrugated metal for the tool shed in my backyard.
I run my fingers through the grooves on oak trees, trying to find which one is soundest.
To build my own house, peaking out of the woods.
It would be a hard life with a hard winter.
With a warm heart and some burnt toast. Jam for the toast.

If I measure the standard breast height of a German woodsman against my chest,
his thumping form lands precisely above where the shell button on my sweater nestles into my breasts.
If I use this marker against the trees I can measure the circumference of the tree at that height
and divide it by pi to get the tree's diameter at breast height.
And I can plug this number into the exponential equation to get the tree's dry weight biomass.
Divide that by two and it's approximately the amount of carbon in the tree.

Carbon 60 is in the shape of a geodesic dome, one of the strongest structures in the universe.
I will make windows out of triangular pieces of glass
placed solidly askew and fixed in place with welded iron.
The sun will come in and the rain will stay out.
The wind will whistle like it does now.

Chunk chunk chunk with the sound of rock and roll.
Thump and rattle for the elements, for structure and sweat on the shirt.
Saw dust and paint spatters in my hair.
My new rosy cheeks.







I'm working at the Acadia Institute of Oceanography this summer for two months.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Wine Before Bed

tripping banjo is playing on the deck
an aqua tracksuit comes running up ahead
rhode island's interstate will go right to your head
oh winter weakens you like wine before bed

hold this state dear to you even in california
where i bet the mandarins are glowing
more than tail lights heading southeast this december
and will the black ice thaw before i see you again

you said i looked at you like nobody has
when we played checkers with glass beads blue and red
i guess an evening watching you will go right to the head
oh winter weakens me like wine before bed

When there has been a light snow and intense cold, the drifts around bushes become crisp thin shells from under which all the snow has either shrunk or blown away. A toe tap could crumble these shells without a good-bye. As it is the wind scours them airy smooth. Here is where the snow was. Remember me.

Just finished an internship application. Acadia National Park this summer? Mehbeh.

For You, Liking Birthdays

Bottle of wine in a bag
brown bag by my brown coat
by the door by the dog

small dog, small house, good house
good dog, good company

good wine and company
mostly company
though plenty of wine.

What would you do tonight
without this night
and this wine, this dog

and who would you kiss
by this door with this wine
without such company?

Not me tonight
though you don't tonight.

Tad pissed off at the O'Reilley Factor right now, although, let's face it, that's not so bizarre.

Definitely was about to climb into SexPowerGod through the Sayles Hall bathroom window... definitely didn't because a friend got stuck in the crossbeam of a local officer in all her SPG glory right before me. Definitely was standing in the freezing cold for more than I should have been, definitely took a peak inside from the front lobby and was ever so slightly jealous of the lights and dance music. Was absolutely amused by the juxtoposition of the QA's annual debauchery fest taking place under the stuffy portraits of Brunonia's great white wigged men. Ruthie Simms, where art thou?

Still, I had my doubts... and didn't get my ticket because of it. Was mildly amused by the goings-on, all the while asking myself what the hell I was doing. Mildly disturbed by the people being carried out to EMS... that's what the culture of pre-gaming can do. Yes, it needs to change.

But I am actually furious at the coverage SPG is receiving from the media, specifically from Fox News. Here's what. The negative points in journalistic integrity that network has accumulated in the past four years seem almost subtly gained in comparison to the blatant portrayal of the school (and its culture of contrast) to which I have become attached.

This is what O'Reilley and his unprofessional, ever-so-creepy flibbertigibbet did wrong:
- They failed to do even elementary research in order to get the most elementary facts straight, namely, that tickets were sold for $10 each as anyone graced with eyesight on campus would know from the pretty posters
- The shoddy research is a sign that the program was concerned mainly in pointing out what crazy kids there are at this liberal college, as little effort was put into getting facts straight, and lots of effort put into entering the event and getting footage for titillating purposes
- Lots of unnecessary emphasis was put on girls kissing girls and boys kissing boys, as is seen through the next inappropriate move made by the program...
- They made offensive and patronizing insinuations about the fact that the Queer Alliance hosted the event, saying that while the majority of people attending were straight, the gay population "set the tone"
- They used inaccurate descriptions to inflate their arguments, such as "everyone there was drunk" (okay... they probably were, but still) and "lots of people were doing ecstacy" and "I heard people having sex in the bathroom"
- They incorrectly stated where the money for SexPowerGod comes from, and then used that statement to form their main thesis about the event, namely that Brown has no right to use student money for such a debaucherous event. As is listed on Brown's website, the student activities fee goes to student groups such as the QA but allocated funds must be spent transparently in only certain ways. QA receives about $800 a year, and if any of it went to SPG, it was probably in copying table slips, as a Brown Daily Herald column explains. The QA used funds raised through ticket sales to pay for renting Sayles Hall and for lighting and the DJ, etc.
- They unethically, though perhaps legally, took live footage of students at a closed party and ran it without obscuring faces or notifying the university
- They were sleazy and unprofessional and misinformed, or simply not informed

Brown has drinking issues like any college, and that's bad. But I'm afraid that recent events and the ridiculous coverage received will prompt the university to change its alcohol policies to reflect those at some other institutions that give their students less responsibility. Stringent rules, policing and "dry" campuses tend to harbor irresponsible behavior and clandestine binge drinking. Brown has had no alcohol-related deaths in recent years and it is because students are not afraid to call EMS on friends because Brown's policy advocates student safety and mutual respect. And also because drinking in moderation is possible.

I'm incoherent right now because conservative yellers, bad journalism and coverage that smacks of homophobia make me really mad.

Found this from the past summer:

August Night Driving

I remember what made me
be in love with road tripping.

At night, driving down the streets
of my high school years
blaring bad radio expansively,
I let myself float
to the tops of trees

where light from towns in other states
peered over the edge of the globe
and put a little bit of green
into the blue night sky.

Summers and summers ago I was alone
as I am now, palms slipping on the wheel,
lids pulled halfway down my face,
shoulders arched as if in take-off.

I remember how I did not really miss
my energy, how it was a comfort
to lean against the car window
and feel sliced between worlds:
rock riffs running parallel to peace.

That is the longing of road travel.
Half-awake, to be conveyed past many landmarks,
traffic lights and streams of buildings and canyons,
and to be aware of the constancy of sky,

a sky that glows without sound
above a world humming
with a sleepy, insistent desire.

... and last week:

Repent October

After I ruined his life she left him
and I remember I sat with you next to the autumn window
at an ungodly hour and spoke unholy.
I told you how tragedy was beautiful and it is
somehow or else we might not die

but mostly I told you about how he rolled
over in the night breathing in not out
and how his hands were at fault
and how the island porch was overhung with stars
so we leaned into them loving

and that was beautiful.
You sat stiff and sad, making noises
until finally you pointed out that all I said
was what was beautiful not what was right.

I know you go to church under gold leaf
but even in my own observances
beside the dusty white radiator
I think of these things and

so I haven't had the pride
to hang my head. I ruined his life.
She left him and still the trees glow

and I do not know
for how long the two of us will mourn
but I find myself glancing hard at you
and asking what there is
for human beings to do
that is not offensive destructive precious

too and what can I say to god
when this life after all is beautiful.

P.S. More good times from Father:

Katie,

This is just to let you know that Mars is approching closest to the Earth this time maybe in another 2-3 days.
Look up to the almost center part of the sky around 8:30 p.m. and you will notice a Bright Red Object which is hard to miss as long as the sky is clear. You won't see Mars that close until 2020 when you will be 34 years old and we will be ???.

Of course, don't go out alone to see the misterious specutacular planet.

Love,

Dad.

the grin that you gave
when the band played the song
that conjured all you care for

the pat on my leg
that seemed to convey
what you were glad for

the look of surprise on your face
when you finally took my hand
you're a bold one, comrade

another pumpkin on the bench for me to split in two
lean into the wind and exchange letters in the afternoon
you surprised your conscience with another point of view
oooh ooh hoo hoo
and you delight in

the blankets at night
while the rain comes crashing
and we dance in fright

digits of your hand
that you place on my ribs
i guess i understand

that the man is a good one
with his fists in his face
and his heart in his hand

the man is a good one
and i shake and i stare
at the old string band

at the look of surprise on your face
when you finally took my hand
you're a bold one, comrade

and you delight in

oh the goofy girl
when it seems there's no justice
in all the world

and november awakes
the world is on fire
and i shake i shake

at the look of surprise on your face
when you finally took my hand
you're bold one, comrade

another pumpkin on the bench for me to split in two
lean into the wind and exchange letters in the afternoon
you surprised your conscience with another point of view
ooh ooh hoo hoo

Do I miss my parents? Not really. But emails from Dad are always amusing. Here are some excerpts from the latest. (His discombobulated idiomatic expressions remind one of... oh... Ben Stark?)

"I felt lucky as I could hear your healthy voice because I happened to work from home today. I got a new Accord Hybrid '05 as a company's car. According to our company's policies, I am entitled to get a new car every 75,000 miles. This is how much I drove in less than 3 years due to a long commuting of 120 miles a day.

"Accord Hybrid '05 seems to be small especially in a trunk space which looks like a half of my old one. And no spare tires, instead tire repair kit was equipped. It is very un-real and stupid to think to repair flat tire on the shoulder of Garden State Parkway. I will just call AAA. Well, it is raining very hard outside and the green next to our garage is kind of flooded. I hope the rain will stop when we drive up to Providence on Friday."

Leave it to Koshi to refer to the patch of lawn next to our garage "the green" totally without irony.

Let's see if I can get in touch with the editor of the Science section in the NY Times???

Sam tells me there's a professor at Brown named... Sam Brenner... I might have to take his class.

line me up in single file with all your grievances
stare but i can taste
you're still alive below the waste
ripples come and ripples go
and ripple back to me
i'm not asking you to believe in me
boy i think you're confused
i'm not persephone

- Tori Amos "Pandora's Aquarium"

Just a little peeved after having read the New York Times article about the melting poles and the subsequent scramble to claim oil and shipping routes in the opening waters. Other than that, this Monday off was much needed.

Yesterday I:
• discovered a fantastic reading space with the help of ben "ole hickory" stark... and i love him for it
• rolled up my pants the better to enjoy "the last nice day"
• was called by three non-brunonian w-fielders in the course of ten minutes while sitting in the ratty
• marveled at how fun it is to do laundry in keeney
• cemented plans to meet up with jt in boston and see built to spill!!!!

Today I:
• went to the farmer's market where i pet an alpaca and bought almond biscotti
• had fantastic clam chowder at the ratty while contemplating mark juggling fire
• realized a lot of my day revolves around wondering what good food there is to be had... and mark juggling fire
• got to know the cool kid with the hair, with the added bonus of being able to talk about banjo and environmental science all at once!
• worked on my paper with ben in the fantastic room while listening to yo la tengo

5 Snacks I Like:
• dried cranberries
• olive bread from the farmer's market in wriston quad
• those amazing drinks that billy and i mixed, that only we liked, and so much the better.
• fruit tarts with bess before grueling bike rides back from wholefoods
• good apples and underripe bananas

5 Songs I Know All The Words To:
• "Pick Yer Nose" by Ani Difranco. Okay everything by Ani Difranco
• "The Ballad Of John & Yoko" by John Lennon (The Beatles)
• "This Flight Tonight" by Joni Mitchell
• "She Don't Use Jelly" by The Flaming Lips
• "Distopian Dream Girl" by Built To Spill

5 Things I Would Do With a Million Dollars:
• get a house in Maine
• get a super-efficient car
• go to a few countries for a bit on the spur of the moment
• get people some perfect presents
• wait for a surefire cause to come along and donate it

5 Places I Would Run Away To:
• Mt. Desert Island, Maine
• Block Island (again)
• Sweden
• somewhere in France
• Scotland by train

5 Things I Would Never Wear:
• fur coat
• purple lip-liner
• leather jacket
• huge huge hoop earrings
• something that should not be worn, such as a computer

5 Favorite TV Shows:
• Seinfeld
• Meet The Press with Tim Russert
• The Daily Show
• ... mumble... D'spr'te'ow'swives... mumble
• Now with David Broncoccia

5 Bad Habits:
• doing stupid stuff online instead of my three papers (but i stayed away for a while... now i blame mary)
• terrorizing the subby f-ers with billy
• stealing things from ben, letting jeff's glares get to me, and generally being a little incomprehensible late at night
• constantly comparing everything to nyc or maine
• something about leading jerks on

5 Greatest Joys:
• Mt. Desert Island, Maine
• Ben Stark's Invisibility Cloak Extravaganza with Billy
• Uitwaain. Walking in the wind for the fun of it.
• Huge storms at the shore, especially if there is a diner involved, especially if I just won a tennis match
• Amazing energetic beautiful concerts, namely Sufjan Stevens and Ani and Phish when they existed, and also the choir in the music building by Perkins when they practice

5 Fictional Characters I would Date:
• Ron Weasley... in a flash
• Rick in Casablanca if he weren't so black and white and such a heavy drinker
• Peter Pan if he was into that yet. << yes, Mary
• Jack Sparrow. "Slightly gay pirate?" At least we'd be friends. I'd bring the apple juice.
• Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

"Like Hoom, you have in you something that makes a choice -- something that decides, This is me, this is not-me. Hoom could have been a murderer, couldn't he? Or he could have treated his children as his father treated him, couldn't he? It's that part of you that chooses that is your soul, Lared. [There] are some choices you cannot live with, you cannot bear remembering that you did this thing, because it is not the sort of thing you do. So you aren't just an echo. But you are part of a cloth, a vast weaving; your life forces other people to make choices, too. The men who honor you for saving your father -- don't you realize that it gives meaning to their lives, too? Some might be jealous of you, you know -- but they are not. They love you for your goodness, and that makes them good. But if there were no pain, if there were no fear, then what does it matter that we live together, that our lives touch? If our actions have no consequences, if nothing can be bad, then we might as well die, all of us, because we are just machines, contented machines, well oiled and running smoothly with no need to think, nothing to value, because there are no problems to solve and nothing we can lose. You love Hoom because of what he did in the face of pain. And because you love him, you have become him, in part, and others, knowing you, will also become him, in part. It's how we stay alive in the world."
-Jason, in The Worthing Saga (Orson Scott Card)

Thanks, Jeff.

Alright, so I know I hinted in my last entry that I wasn't going to be writing in this thing again, but I think the following warrants a post just by its strangeness. Consider it a last hurrah of a factoid? (I'll be back, I'm sure.)

So yeah, maybe I've been playing tennis nearly every day this summer, and yeah, maybe I do have a little bet with JT that I'll date a football player somewhere in the next four years, and yeah, maybe I do get a little bit unnecessarily stoked when I get a good shot at mini golf, or when I think I might be able to see Natasha throwing people around on the rugby field, and yeah, maybe Jeff will educate me a little bit about hockey beyond my - erm - skills with NHL video games... but I think everyone will agree, even with these recent developments, that when you take Katie and say "athletic" next to her, she probably isn't being addressed. My most thrilling athletic accomplishments to date have been sea kayaking in Maine, which is awesome, but it's not Gym.

So we know all this. BC Calc: Destroying horcruxes on the tennis court every day does not equal football champion. But I was cleaning the office this morning and came upon an intriguing bit of paper.

Let's just say, I think I may actually be a football star. In fact, here's my theory; Up until the eighth grade, Katie O was a child football playing sensation. Maybe she was in the junior olympics, if football is in the junior olympics, which I don't think it is. But anyway. She had a whole career before her... first female athlete in the NFL, etc. But then, as most football players are fated to do at some point in their lives, she got a concussion. A concussion from which she could not recover.

That's where Katie O ends and I take over. And that's why I have no recollection whatsoever of my glory days, and that's why I'm greatly, greatly puzzled by the following:

PRAISE FROM THE PRINCIPAL
Grade 8 Period 3
11 / 21 / 00
"Katharine has demonstrated an excellent attitude in Physical Education class by participating in football skills and games! Katharine is a positive influence on others in the class. Her knowledge and ability to perform football skills enables her to be an asset to this class. Her listening skills and sportsmanship aare qualities that exemplify a responsible and competent Physical Education student! It is a pleasure having Katharine in our PE class."

Let me take a page out of Mia Thermopolis' book and just say: PE teachers, are you on crack?!

Football knowledgingly yours,
KSO

And she was in it for it ooooooonly...

FINALLY. Picked some course preferences for the fall semester. That was long and painful, and if I get all of my first choices my autumn is going to be one of the most head-achey possible, but that's alright, because hopefully I won't, and I can always drop classes after I get to orientation and find out I got into an FYS. So, just because I can, I give you...


COURSE PREFERENCES!
1. French 50 (Writing & Speaking I)
2. Intro to Comparative Politics
3. Physical Processes in Geology
4. Journalistic Writing (for auld lang syne)

Not Calculus!

ALTERNATIVE CHOICES!
1. Intro to Public Policy
2. Intro to Scandinavian Literature!
3. Race, Class, and Ethnicity in America

AND MY CAP COURSE! (The one thing I'm sure about right now)
Environmental Issues: Policy and Sciences

AND MY FIRST YEAR SEMINAR PICKS!
1. Topics in Global Security
2. Human Rights As History

The good stuff doesn't happen until spring semester, though. Intro to Oceanography etc. And the intense all-year Basic Japanese is just going to have to wait.


Aaaaand... readers, if you are out there, probably don't care! It's late and Harry Potter is coming out in forty minutes. I'm getting a chocolate milk.

Oh, and happy summer, everybody. You may have seen the last of me here.

The following is pretty stupid, but summer makes me miss Phish more.

Still bummed that I missed the women's Wimbledon final - apparantly it was intense - but that's the price you pay for an Afternoon.

Go to www.moveon.org and click on Protect The Courts to try to make some dent in the justice nomination plans.

Alright, on to my life.

Arggh.

Impulses.

Dum de dum.

Because Hlinna didn't tag me, and because my French paper is starting to hurt (and I haven't even started working on it).

Get ready. More parenthesis use is coming.

List five songs that you are currently digging. It doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words or even if they're any good but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Then tag five other people to see what they're listening to.

(No! Not Ani Difranco! You thought you had me all figured out, didn't you.)

1. Andrew Bird - A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left

2. Frank Zappa - Dirty Love

3. Sufjan Stevens - Come On! Feel The Illinoise!
(Thank you, Mark Doss)

4. Sufjan Stevens - Jacksonville
(Ditto)

5. The Ramones - Howling At The Moon
(This makes me think of Matt and Maine and vans that smell like ascophyllum.)

(6. Fine. Ani Difranco - Pale Purple)

You're it (you can just comment):
sam brennuh
jigalskadig
minkameowww
urgency_of_now
fidunkadunk

Top 10 Reasons Why I Love Planned Parenthood:

1. Emails with the subject: "Kate, Join us for Summer, Sex and Spirits on June 29th!" That's right, it's contraception cocktail hour.

There aren't nine other reasons, but I think that's sufficient.

Umm... yeah. So I came back to say that Neeta and others must come to the Gayla on Friday at 7 p.m. in the courtyard because it's going to rock. More than prom. Prom the dance was an odd mix of good and lame, but I guess that goes hand in hand with high school tradition. And there was dancing, but a good number of Hi's Eye skipped out before the supreme "High Eyes" dance party started, so poo on you. Prom the weekend, meanwhile, was generally amazing. (Hark, I hear Canada geese flying over Wychwood. Welcome back, summer.) There was beach, snakes, Hurricane House, antiquing, rust, gigantic urinals, ice cream, mini golf, soaking other people, wrestling (I feel strong and so sore), BIKE RIDING, .5 seconds of balzac, watergun capture the flag, capitiller, dropping, random visitors, Ali G (actually both), apples to apples, black rage, playing music on the pier, accordian, f-that, sleeping with Lyndsay, much food, and Indiana Jones. So here's to Ocean Gate and contraception cocktail hour.

My three favorite pictures (stolen from Ali and Willa and Willa, respectively). They're all called "Who Needs An LJ Cut?"

http://community.webshots.com/photo/357871444/357888890TDmNqA

http://community.webshots.com/photo/357749037/359001371grsDzd

http://community.webshots.com/photo/357749037/359001626cPCIzt

And this:

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v464/kso/Night%20Man%20Saves%20a%20Lady/358942521VkbbeO_ph.jpg

I am in desperate need of a concert and college. Brown come get me now.