Effluvia

I ended up not having to bribe anyone. Yet. I'd still like some pointers, just in case.

Are you looking forward to Thanksgiving with the family? I am. I come from a rare functional family; holiday gatherings are usually pretty happy with my people. The Wife and I are off to Memphis tomorrow, and we'll be back some time this weekend. But don't break in or anything! The alarm system will be activated and I intend to empty a bottle of black widow spiders in the living room before we leave.

Journals

• Bad Hair Days
• Plaintive Wail
• Humidity and Hebephrenia
• Randomly Ever After
• U9
• Fukushu
• Nature of life...
• DNA Sequencing

A funny thing: here's some lyrics from the German industrial band Deathline International, translated from German to English via Altavista's Babelfish. I give you the song Brot und Speile.

"Everything which it wants. Everything which we want. Hate a little force bread and plays. Fur the people. I feel this empty in me. I feel no more live in me. I do not have to believe more. I want no dear more. Time time creeps past. Live is grey. Humans. Are deadly bored."

Interestingly enough, these lyrics are quite typical of the band's work in English, as well.

Bonus funny thing: in the CD case for the album that contains the song translated above I found a Harry Connick Jr. CD that has been missing since well before this summer's move. German industrial and neo-big band. What strange musical tastes the Williams family has. I listened to them both this afternoon.

Funny German-related thing: one time me and James went to Seessel's to pick up a few groceries. We were in the dairy-and-lunch-meat section. James was turned around, looking at the beer, so I loaded up my arms with braunschweiger, fat, short, pale sausages. James finally turned around and I was clutching dozens of braunschweiger.

"I got everything I needed!" I declared happily, "lets go!"

Back in the spring my mom gave me a sweater. It's a pale cream color and it opens at the neck, where it's fastened by five wooden buttons. I liked it and told her so. But then the long southern summer started, so the sweater got put away and moved. I finally hauled it out and put it on this morning.

"I don't think I like this sweater," I told Sonya on the phone at lunch.

"What's the matter with it?" she asked reasonably.

"I don't know," I said, "but I'm just afraid it doesn't look good."

This afternoon I figured out what was wrong with the sweater. In high school there was this teacher named Mr. Williston. Mr. Williston was a coach, primarily, but he taught a few classes, as all coaches do. He was a stout little fireplug of a man, all overdeveloped muscles and mashed-potato nose. Also like many coaches his wardrobe was woefully style-deficient; it's developments seemed to have stopped at some point in the early 1970s, and when I encountered him (in the late '80s) all you could say about his clothes were that they were remarkable examples of styles long gone by.

Anyway, Mr. Williston had this sweater, same color and basic design as the one I'm wearing today, except its buttons were gigantic, wagon wheel-type affairs. They were huge! Like dinner plates attached to his sweater!

The buttons on my sweater are small and round, but now that I've figured out the association I may never wear it again. It is definitely son-of-Williston's-sweater.

Yes, I've been slow to update lately, but November is a historically slack month here at wonderland 2. We've just finished up a long autumn of whiffleball tournaments and bleach-drinking; during the next month I have to bake over four-thousand fruitcakes for everyone on my fruitcake list. I'm optomistic that entries will be more regular as the year draws to a close.

Off to eat turkey with the family. See you next week.