I know why the caged bird DOESN'T sing (cause she missed her flight)

I turned twenty-two last week. It seems a pretty harmless age: drinking in Canada is old news: voting is, well, who votes anymore anyways; drinking in the States is one year done, etc.

For my birthday I received nice clothes, money, books; all very nice things and I appreciate them very much. The shirts are beautiful. The money works well in the consumer market. The books are readable. My mother even offered a carton of cigarettes (a brand of my choosing) as a present, to hasten my demise. I declined that offer.

One gift that I did not expect in the least was a ticket to listen to Maya Angelou speak at the Orpheum, with Dee Daniels, Vancouver jazz vocalist, as the opening act. For the first few seconds, looking at the ticket, cuing up my mind's encyclopedic entry for "Angelou, Maya" and coming up with a reference to The Simpsons and the vague notion that she wrote Hallmark greeting cards, I wasn't quite sure that I knew what to say. So I said "Thanks... This will be good for me."

As the week progressed towards the day of the show, I felt a sense of contentment burgeoning. I was gravid with an expected life change: a relic of twentieth century literature was going to speak to ME. The wisdom that would imbued upon me would be vast and in turn I was destined to show others, my friends, the light that Dr. Angelou had found.

Twenty-odd miles and four dollars for parking later, Monday evening, I arrive at the Orpheum to find this note tape to the doors: "Dr. Maya Angelou's event is canceled due to inclement weather. . . "

So now I am back home, same as ever just with less money, remembering that it's not others who are to change us; her deep booming voice (I assume it is similar to James Earle Jones' stentorian howl), her racial background, her flowing dresses and cylindrical headdresses, all these things would have impressed me to some degree.

lack of purity of essence

Something is up.

It isn't the skateboarding; spaghetti legs can be explained by the lack of exercise and the odd muscle combinations required while skating.

It isn't the food either, as I've ameliorated my diet considerably: adding a daily salad, lessening my sugar intake (coffee: cream no sugar), constant vigilance regarding vitamins, and so on.

It isn't Seasonal Affective Disorder. I can enjoy rain, and lately the sun abounds.

Something is up and it feels like I'm about to drop a bomb. At least let it be the big one.

MASH UPZ

I have three hours of class time a week that are devoted solely to things Bob Dylan. I love university. Between the hours of listening and analyzing Bob Dylan songs, my mind often wanders. This is what it produces:

"Subterranean Ghetto Blues"

Johnny’s in the basement
Cooking up a new batch
I’m on the street
Thinking about the beat
The pig posted up
Steel flashed, no cash
Wants to get a new stash
Look out son
It’s something you done
Lord knows when
But you’re playing me again
You better rush back to the stuy
Looking for a new buy
Fiend in the dirty chucks
Wants two hits
But doesn’t have enough bucks

My bitch hustles back, mad fear
Face full of tears, something’s wrong
Saying that the heats on
Packed up the crack but
The phones tapped anyway
World’s coming down in early may
Snitch hooked up to the D.A.
Look out son
Don’t matter what you done
Walk on your tip toes
Better stay away from those
That claim they got a lot of dough
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don’t need an accountant
To know how my cash flows

Get rich, get paid
Stay in the crib and get laid
The page beeps, hard to tell
If this birds gonna sell
Blast hits, your pissed
Fuck the ER and try to run far
Get grabbed, put upstate
Trust was your first mistake
Look out son
You might be the one
Boys on the block
Been rats since day one
Hoe at the spot in the tub
Looking for a back rub
Don’t trip
Shoulda watched your shit

Ah back up, furs warm
ROCA pants, romance, homies don’t dance
Stay fly, stay blessed
Keep your game a success
Fuck her, fuck him, cap them
No further education
And they put you in the burger pen
Look out son
They keep it all wrapped
Better push past and
Flip them flaps
Stay outta scandals
On the beach with Gucci sandals
Now you thought you won
But the cake ain’t coming
‘Cause the spics trying to pull shit

Original lyrics to "Subterranean Homesick Blues" HERE.

twin goofs

new reel

I paid for the new Hot Chip album. It's pretty good so far. It is good. Live in concert at The Commodore April 21st. SOLD OUT BITCH.

If you want a real review, this will suffice.

bomb again

With another threat received at my school, the increased police presence is felt on campus. Also, it has snowed again today. Terror AND frozen water, and yet the school remains open. While the bio-science students get a free pass due to their "traumatic" experience, the rest of the student body has to walk around a police-state campus.

If an arts student were to explode in a million fragments, the bio-sciences students would be told to... "stay home for a while. You know, take those vacation days you been saving up; take Ginny and the kids to the water-slides down past Del Rio."

What are those bio-science students doing in there anyways? Being stuck inside for hours on end, as was the case last week, I'm sure they were up to all sorts of shenanigans. Shenanigans! Spinning the beaker and getting first kisses, seven minutes under the chemical vent-heaven, huffing who-knows-what. Sounds pretty good to me.