Musings beside a photocopy of a Lotto 6/49 ticket

Hey, hello.

I am still existent. Barely getting by, subsisting on white russians and steamed vegetables.

A couple of weeks ago, i had sauteed brussels sprouts with sliced apples. It was weird, but the effect was that i was able to survive for another evening. Plus, it comes highly recommended by Epicurious. Or some shit. Tally another for the Thirtysomething!

I have been re-digitizing my entire music collection, onto an array of teenage-girl-backpack-purse-sized hard drive devices, with cute little blue lights. I have a lot of music, because all that i ever do is listen to music, of course. So it is taking a long time. I am only up to Tori Amos. So i have been listening to and re-pirating lots of Tori Amos. It is like it is 1995 again, except i am not blushing at all of the allusions to masturbation this time. Or maybe i am. "If you know me so well, tell me which hand i use" and whatever.

Part of what has prompted me to take on such an arduous and nerdy task is my brand new jet-black iPod, which under normal circumstances, i would have owned since 1998. (I am fond of new weird gadgetry, especially if they have something to do with musics.) But somehow i did not buy an iPod before anyone else had even heard of them. Instead, i have become one of the last 5% of civilization to cave into its overwhelming capitalistastic powers. Which can probably misconstrued as evidence of my communist agenda.

Anyway, life is better with an iPod, it is true. It is all true.

Last month there was a long weekend in Richmond. This is a geographical location where the phantom of Anastasia Nikolaevna has been known to visit Tori Amos, as a matter of fact. I get no such metaphysical interactions, but i do ponder wielding the Flame of Anor, in case of possible encounters with the phantom of Yakov Yurovsky, who is eternally deserving of the dark washes of Utumno, forever.

Richmond was sunny, nice for the taking of pictures with old- and new-style cameras. We saw Lisa. We saw Matt. There was too much driving involved.

Now i am back, and unable to leave the country again until i have a legal work permit, to replace the one which expired at the beginning of March. Perhaps i will be evaluated as a waste of Canadian space, and will be deported. Which would require me to once again exhume my gigantic handkerchief, into which all of possessions would go, and tie the bundle to my supermajestic hobo stick, and there i would go, hitting the road, looking downtrodden, all the way to the Peace Bridge, past the city which denied me any potential of obtaining Sabres playoff tickets, looking more downtrodden, getting rained upon through the forests of Pennsylvania, dropping off a resignation in New Jersey, finding an abandoned barn in Maryland to stow my large knapsack, boarding a vessel in the Chesapeake bound for Novaya Zemlya, where my calligraphy ninjitsu would surely benefit from the landscape, which probably lends itself to focusing intensely on arts and crafts.

I need to go for now.

Bye, -Tim.