It’s so tedious when bloggers get book deals and then they yammer on about it. Who cares?

Why can’t we go back to the voyeuristic thrill of reading about the daily neurosis?

It is also terrible when a previously funny or tasteless blog morphs into simpering nonsense about children.

These are just observations, not complaints.

Did you know I gave up negative thinking for Lent?

I’m actually doing a pretty good job metamorphosing from a dark and cynical Hater into a sparkling, effervescent positive Force of Universal Love. I think. The printer went on the blink this morning and I calmly turned it off and then back on rather than hurling it out the window. Which I really, really wanted to do because I was PISSED. Control. It’s all about control.

Today painting a simple self-portrait went hopelessly awry:

I immediately gave up on the whole mess for today and decided to just sink into a black despair. Actually, this wasn’t really a conscious decision so much as the inevitable outcome.

I will never know why I decided to adjust the height of the easel without removing the mirror from it first. I’ve been thinking about the whole bad luck thing and have decided to reject it utterly. Instead I plan to have 7+ years of fantastic luck. Which I think has already begun because if I’d had bad luck when this thing fell, it would have sliced me to ribbons. As it is, I have walked – well trudged- away unscathed.

Something I ingested yesterday has turned the roof of my mouth into a pulpy, stringy mess. I seem to recall burning it on overheated lunch. I do not like this.

Galkyd has its benefits, principally that it dries fast. It also makes my lungs ache, and yes I am using it with adequate ventilation. And I must say I am not very excited about that.

Galkyd works well as a thin glazing medium so I think I’ll keep using it for the bottom layers of paintings. But today Venice turpentine reappeared at the tack store and really nothing beats it for versatility and sheer joy in paint handling. Venice turpentine has the magic in it. That is just the way it is.

Here we have it mixed with linseed oil to make an easy glossy medium that holds brush strokes:

And this is what we used it for:

We also used traditional Venetian glazing medium in this painting and the 3 others that we started tonight. (Why do I keep using the Royal We?)

And now it is time for bed.

The FAFSA (Federal Application for Student Aid) never fails to blow me away and/or make me cry a bitter tear for the failure of Capitalism. Or the triumph of Capitalism. I don’t know which is worse.

They tell me:

Your estimated Expected Family Contribution (EFC) is: $34,291

Ouch. I’m not sure exactly what EFC is, but I do know that the result of it is terrible financial aid offers. I think it means that they assume I am capable of making this much money so they don’t need to offer me any. That’s fine, except: Who is my mysterious benefactor who plans to chip in $34,291 to my education and living expenses this year? Other than myself, and I can only make that much money by working full-time, which means I can’t really be in school… and so it goes.

I am doing fine financially, but last year the two of us were living on a real income of $15,000 plus student loans. Now the one of us is living on a real income of $4000 plus student loans. I just think FAFSA is creepy and degenerate, and maybe deranged. I wish my budget was as magical as they apparently seem to think it is.

Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know, FAFSA.

Sometimes I long to call up Nextel with inane questions in an effort to drive their customer service personnel as crazy as they drive me.

Consider the following conversation which is:

Real. Holy. Sincere.

Real. Holy. Sincere. conversation follows

Me: I’d like to add the free nights and weekends starting at 7?
CSR: IT’S NOT FREE IT IS FIVE DOLLARS
Me: Oh… well, I saw on the website that it was free and if you wanted to have nights and weekends start at 5 then that was five extra dollars.
CSR: THERE IS NO NIGHTS AND WEEKENDS STARTING AT FIVE PM ONLY SIX OR SEVEN IT DEPENDS ON THE PLAN
Me: On the website it said 5… I thought…
CSR: I’M GONNA PUT YOU ON HOLD
Me: Okay.
Time passes
CSR: (accusingly) IT SAYS HERE YOUR NIGHTS AND WEEKENDS START AT 9 PM.
Me: I know that, I’m trying to get it to start at 7 which I thought was free- according to the information on your website.
CSR: NO!!! IT IS FIVE DOLLARS.
Me: Okay. I’m not going to make the change at this time.
CSR: THANK YOU FOR CALLING SPRINT WE TRULY VALUE YOUR BUSINESS

Where do they find these people? Even when I worked in phone customer service I wasn’t this bloody-minded*.

But if we can have this kind of fun with real questions, just imagine the amount of fun we can have with really dippy made up ones. About the intricacies of phone plans.

I’m sure it takes a special kind of person to call up these poor fools just in order to harass them.

A me kind of person. A me kind of special.

*a rare instance when the Britishism is the only word that really fits

My salsa has frozen. This is going to make it difficult to “Feel the fiesta.”

But I am a Man, an American, a College Graduate.

I am going to get through this.

Dear Butterfingers,

I understand what’s going on. Your number is (571) 237- 6374. My number is (571) 237- 6371. The 1 is above the 4 and you keep misdialing when checking your Goddam voice mail.

You have to stop this. Please. Please stop dialing my number at 7 AM. I assume anyone who calls me at 7 AM is having an emergency, not simply using their butterfingers to misdial their own voice mail. Please also stop dialing my number at 9:30 AM, 10:45 AM, and all other available times.

In the interest of good will I guess I will apologize for the following conversation that we had at 9:30 AM:

Me: (picking up phone from deep sleep) Who are you? Why do you keep calling me?
You: (mumbling some elaborate story in thick Spanish accent)
Me: What the hell? (I hang up)

Ordinarily I am up by 9:30 and busily at work*. Let’s recap the night.

2 AM: Go to bed.
3:30 AM: Wake up melting in extraordinary heat from suddenly overactive heater.
3:45 AM: Crawl down risky loft ladder to turn down thermostat.
3:45 to 6 AM: Lay (LIE!) in bed stewing about life circumstances. Divorce, bankruptcy, demented realtors, etc.
6 AM: Doze off
7 AM: Alarming phone call nearly gives me heart attack.
9:30 AM: Unfortunate conversation
11:10 AM: Finally drag myself out of bed, feeling like hell, looking like hell, tired as hell. Attempt to proceed with appalling, hallucinatory, sleep-deprived day.

You can see how your phone behavior is impacting my life.

Thank you for your consideration.

Kevin Inman
Insomniac,
Owner of the Cell Phone At The Other End of (571) 237- 6371,
and Concerned Citizen

*This is increasingly a total lie.

A sign at Macado’s, our local Guinness seller.

I love this “sense of urgency” business. I do not think I am suited for this job.

Next:

Hot Pot is probably the best term for this unholy meal. It doesn’t look too scary in the picture but here is the list of ingredients:

1 Lean Cuisine Chicken Primavera frozen bag dinner (about 2 years old)
1/2 bag tortellini
Leftover hashbrowns
6 frozen fried breaded chicken tenders
1/2 bag baby spinach which mysteriously froze in the crisper

Unholy? I’ll let you decide for yourselves.

Then there are these shopping carts for Midgets:

And I wonder if “midgets” is seriously rude and un-PC but really what else can you say? I put “shrimps” on Flickr when I uploaded the photo but somehow that seems even worse. Shrimps/ Midgets/ Short People– they exist but what can you politely call them?

I think this is yet another example of the elephant in the room like today in Art History class we were asked to compare Matisse’s naked man statue to Rodin’s Walking Man and nobody pointed out that Matisse’s naked man has frankly a giant nutsack while Rodin’s has none…

I have just purchased a milkshake at Sonic.

I think that cookies and cream milkshakes, though harder to drink, are also more rewarding.

But this one is ridiculously thick. I am going to have to add milk.

Also today I learned that there isn’t really a place to order at Sonic if you are not in your car. That inviting door just leads to the kitchen.

Fantastic weekend. I love this photo of Alaina and Brutus:

Me: How big and what color is the rug, and how much are you asking for it?

Craigslist reply: Um not good at dimensions. The rug is in excellent condition (about $50 in Walmart). Um getting lots of inquiries about the rug. Highest bidder is now at $25. Will sell to highest bidder by Friday.

Hmm. I’ve been looking for something cheap and not too offensive to basically use as a dropcloth that I won’t trip over constantly. I’m having a hard time seeing myself involved in a bidding war over this thing, especially since the picture he sent still doesn’t begin to say how big it is:

But you have to admire the constant use of “um” in his reply.

My neighbor’s apartment smells awful- unwashed male apartment, body odor funk. I went inside the place one time and it was among the worst smells I have ever experienced. It’s far beyond the ordinary locker room odors. It’s more like a sun-ripened hobo in the summer.

And now the smell has become so extreme that it’s spreading beyond his apartment. You are hit with the unspeakable stench when you walk past his door or his window. And I fear that the smell is now oozing through the walls into my apartment, though it could just be my overactive imagination.

And if it is really happening, what next? I’m trying to think how to approach this in a tactful way and I can’t think of one.

“Hey… I’ve noticed that your apartment’s funk has crept into mine. How about washing your sheets?” Obviously not. Maybe I’ll slip a Febreze odor killer under the air intake of his window heating unit?

More intrigue here in my personal mystery novel of tedium.

Where is this book by Danto? The Radford library wants it back.

AUTHOR: Danto, Arthur Coleman,
After the end of art

The choices are grim:

1. stuck in some box upon moving from Blacksburg, never to be found again
2. returned to some other library, never to be found again
3. Steve stole it in retaliation for my loudness

Downstairs Neighbor Steve. Together we have straightened out the thumping and lumbering. We came to an agreement that this place appears to be built out of cardboard, and might fall off the hill at any time.

He pointed out he can hear everything I do, and I pointed out that I can hear everything he does, at which point he went white as a ghost beneath what I have to say is an extremely swarthy tan. So apparently he has a deadly secret. I wonder what it is? Something I overheard was interesting. But what? What?

He also claims he wasn’t home at 7 AM, which means… intrigue. Somebody was lumbering around downstairs. Maybe the place is haunted. This would explain some of the odd smells and probably the fact that Steve thinks I play guitar up here, and drums, which I definitely do not.

Yes, living here is a bit like living in a fairly bad mystery novel, full of suspicion and men named Steve.

And the odor of kitten diarrhea- turns out to have been elderly butter mingled with the sweet aroma of blueberry bagels. Man, that stuff is rank. I’d been wondering why my toast tasted kind of like socks.