I was visiting Jessica at the coffee shop where she works; me and a friend decide to order a pizza while we are hanging out. We are very hungry. This old-ass plumber that he knows (also hanging out) says he will give us a couple bucks so he can get a piece. Fine. Key word here: A piece.

We order, pay for, and drive to pick up the pizza and bring it back to the coffee shop. Old dude eats two pieces and gives two pieces away to random fat people that he knows that are not on the pre-approved pizza distribution list. So two pieces each are left for the people who bought the pizza, while old dude has consumed four (albeit two indirectly).

I wanted to pick up a piece of the leftover cheese stuck to the box and smush it into his eye.

I went to see Mexico 1910 at Melvin's late last night. The guitarist/bassist Ashley was shredding on the bass during one of their new songs and I was completely entranced by her fingers. Her fingers looked like a robotic hand performing some task, but it was with such fluid grace that her bass lines carried the song. I was completely entranced.

Bobby and his roommate Max gave me a copy of Tom Verlaine's Dreamtime on vinyl as a sort of housewarming gift. Perfect timing since I have been listening to Television for weeks, given all the rain and Marquee Moon's fitting sound for thunderstorms. Thanks y'all. Speaking of which, my collection of LPs is slowly growing, but I think I will have to double it before I can feel like my turntable purchase is justifiable.

Literature and experience constantly reminds us that looks can be deceiving. I know it is not my right to question why people attempt to portray an image, rather than just accept that person looks that way because they want to look that way.

I often realize that those that are the quickest to associate themselves with punk rock or adopt a punk aesthetic are the least likely to do anything revolutionary, activist, or anarchistic. As though having a mohawk, tattoos, and a torn-up military vest with a Misfits/Clash/Born Against patch implies that, although you enjoy the music, either you disagree with the message or are unwilling to take any action. I'm sure this has been discussed ad nauseum in some zine somewhere, so I won't rehash it. Just sayin...people need to get off their asses, rather than trying to look like they have gotten off their asses.

On the other hand, I've recently met individuals that have surprised me with radical thoughts and actions that belie an appearingly harmless exterior. In others, I have discovered a horrible and depressing life experience while appearing to be endearingly innocent.

Once I was driving down St. Charles with Justin and Scott. I think we were going to the Shim Sham for Glam night or something. I saw a girl walking on the hazardous sidewalks one block before Napoleon, dressed up in a hoochie-mama skirt and three-inch heels. She was by herself, and apparently strugglin' with the heels. Right before we passed her in Justin's car, her shoe caught on one of the protruding concrete slabs, and she stumbled momentarily, looking around to see if she had been seen.

Scott rolled down his window nonchalantly and screamed in his Banshee Goat voice, "I SAW YOU TRIP, BITCH!"

Everyone in the car was stunned. I believe it was the most selflessly mean thing I had ever seen, but I couldn't fathom someone as well-adjusted and good-natured as Scott doing it. After about half a second, we all realized how fucking funny it was and laughed our asses off. I still feel a little pang of guilt, thinking about the damage done to this girl's self-esteem, but this guilt quickly turns to guilty pleasure. Every time I see someone stumble, not the kind where you actually fall down, rather the kind that makes you spazz out harmlessly for a moment, I want to scream, "I SAW YOU TRIP, BITCH" so loud that my throat burns.

But I don't...I just say it under my breath and then guffaw.

I've been listening to loads of complex and heavy music lately; somehow it helps me concentrate. Converge, older Cave-In, Martyr AD, Lickgoldensky, Hot Cross, Darkest Hour, pg.99, Majority Rule, Dillinger, all the old standards. I'm working on some DHTML stuff that is challenging my skill and the browser support of all these esoteric javascript methods and objects that I've never seen before.

I started work on the courtyard yesterday afternoon, finishing the fountain installation. I think it will be pretty awesome back there once it is finished. Digging through the shed produced about 30 feet of string lights that worked perfectly, so I set them up around the overhand and the fountain. I'm kind of going for a Pat O'Brian's courtyard look, with that dark shiny slate...let's see if the budget and the patience make it that far.

Melissa gets back into town this afternoon. She will be seeing the apartment for the first time since moving day, so I am expecting a backlash of anti-Trey sentiment, despite the fact that I have already sunk a few grand into buying furniture, appliances, and generic household items. She will see that I left dishes in the sink this morning and she will freak out. She will see my computer desk in the "dining room" and she will freak out. I can feel it. However, I have a damn good excuse for that. See, I don't want to set up my computer desk in my office until I get my new computer in...it's a pretty fine looking machine, and I don't want it hiding behind a laundry hamper or nothin'.

By the way, Melissa posted something on her blog for the first time in a million years.

In the interest of safety regulations, They (TM) are trying to stop me from listening to my iPod (or using headphones at all) during work. If I go I will not be going quietly. In the case that they succeed, I will be forced to listen to blackmetal over my computer speakers at a reasonable volume. Blackmetal at a reasonable volume is still blackmetal, however, I will have to compensate in other areas to raise blackmetal awareness. These things may include:

• Handing out leather wristguards (minus spikes or shard protrustions)


• Personnel trained in devil lock maintainance


• Office furniture ergonomically designed to facilitate dark rituals and headbanging


• Vocabulary expansion program to introduce blackmetal language into everyday office tasks. For example, "Dion, would you mind cleaning up the conference room for the manager's meeting? That would be greeaat..." becomes, "Clean my filthhole lair for the meeting of the dark Lords. Heed my word, succubus."

You don't know fear until you have been on the business end of a 400lb piece of furniture as you navigate it down a flight of stairs. You also may or may not be familiar with lower back pain. I know both, my friends. I'm all moved in, yo.

I remember a few years ago, I was looking for apartments with Missy, Scott, and Luke. We went to check out a first floor apartment underneath this law practice of Maple Street. The ceilings were 6'8" tall. How do I know this? Because after I ducked into the living room, my height combined with the half inch from my shoes made my head scrape deliciously as I walked around. I was tickled that the agent still thought this particular rental would be an acceptable situation for me. "As long as you don't jump, you should be fine."

"How quaint..."

When the owners of my new apartment were showing me the place, we walked into a bedroom that looks out on the "French Quarter style" courtyard. The plants outside the window were blowing gently, and the guys says, "Yeah, look, you have prevailing winds comings in from the northeast [whatever that means], so you can open up these windows when you want some breeze..." He slid one of them up halfway, and the heated air from the central air conditioning units right under the window comes flowing in, blowing the shrubs on the way. Prevailing winds, MY ASS!

I smirked politely, "Close enough."